THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


ft- 


THE 


POEMS    OF   HENRY  ABBEY. 


NEW,  ENLARGED  EDITION. 


KINGSTON,  NEW  YORK : 
HENRY  ABBEY. 

1885. 


Copyright, 

1866, 1869, 1872, 1879, 1883,  and  1885, 
Bl  HENRY  ABBEY. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge  : 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  11.  0.  Iloughton  &  Co. 


PS 


/ 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

FACIEBAT 1 

ALONG  THE  NILE 1 

THE  STATUE 3 

TRAILING  ARBUTUS 5 

THE  TROUBADOUR 6 

WHILE  THE  DAYS  GO  BY    .        .        .        ...        .        .        .  7 

MAY  IN  KINGSTON 8 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN 9 

RECOMPENSE 11 

DONALD 12 

IN  THE  VALLEY 13 

Low  TIDE 14 

THE  PATIENCE  OF  LIBERTY 15 

MARY  MAGDALENE 16 

THE  AGE  OF  GOOD 19 

KARAGWE 20 

THE  TREE  OF  JULY 44 

THE  DRAWBRIDGE-KEEPER 45 

THE  EMIR'S  CHARITY 47 

THE  BEDOUIN'S  REBUKE 48 

THE  ROMAN  SENTINEL 50 

THE  FRENCH  MARSHAL 51 

THE  ARTIST'S  PRAYER 52 

THE  SINGER'S  ALMS 53 

THE  KING'S  SACRIFICE 54 


957C£5 


iv  CONTENTS. 

THE  CALIPH'S  MAGNANIMITY 55 

RALPH 57 

HYMN  FOB  DECORATION  DAT 62 

THE  AUSTRIAN  HUSSAR 63 

THE  KING  AND  THE  NAIAD 65 

AGNES  HATOT 67 

BALLAD  OF  CONSOLATION 69 

GUYOT  OF  MARSEILLES 74 

ONTIOBA 76 

LIBERTY 79 

THE  PATRIOT'S  COURAGE 93 

THE  PREACHER'S  DOLE 95 

THE  STOWAWAY  BOY 97 

THE  GALLEY-SLAVE 98 

THE  CITY  OF  SUCCESS 100 

A  SUIT  OF  ABHOR 121 

A  GUARDIAN  ANGEL 122 

AUTUMN  BALLAD v       .  125 

THE  RINGER'S  VENGEANCE 126 

IRAK 129 

FOREKNOWLEDGE 139 

SCIENCE  AND  THE  SOUL 142 

THE  CITY  OF  DECAY 145 

BELLEROPHON 180 

THE  HERMIT 183 

A  MORNING  PASTORAL 185 

STORM 187 

VANDERLYN 187 

DANDELION  AND  TIGER-LILY 190 

THE  GIANT  SPIDER 213 

POPLICOLA 223 

THE  EMPEROR'S  MERCY     ....                               .  229 


CONTENTS.  v 

LOW  LIVES  WE  LED  OF  CARE  AND  SlN 231 

THE  HOST'S  HUMILITY 233 

To  RICHARD  GRANT  WHITE 236 

THE  PICTURE 238 

FLOS  MORTI f  239 

THE  JEW'S  PIETY 241 

WINTER  DAYS t  £43 

IN  HANGING  GARDENS 244 

VERSES  IN  MEMORY  OF  GENERAL  GRANT 245 

PHILIPPA 247 

THE  FISHER-MAIDENS ,  250 

BY  HUDSON'S  TIDE 251 

INVOCATION  TO  THE  SUN       .       .       .       .   -    ,       .       .       .  254 


FACIEBAT. 

As  thoughts  possess  the  fashion  of  the  mood 
That  gave  them  birth,  so  every  deed  we  do 
Partakes  of  our  inborn  disquietude 
That  spurns  the  old  and  reaches  toward  the  new. 
The  noblest  works  of  human  art  and  pride 
Show  that  their  makers  were  not  satisfied. 

For,  looking  down  the  ladder  of  our  deeds, 
The  rounds  seem  slender  :  all  past  work  appears 
Unto  the  doer  faulty  :    the  heart  bleeds, 
And  pale  Regret  comes  weltering  in  tears, 
To  think  how  poor  our  best  has  been,  how  vain, 
Beside  the  excellence  we  would  attain. 


ALONG  THE  NILE. 

WE  journey  up  the  storied  Nile ; 
The  lightsome  water  seems  to  smile ; 
The  slow  and  swarthy  boatman  sings ; 
The  quaint  dahbeyeh  spreads  her  wings ; 
We  catch  the  breeze  and  sail  away, 
Along  the  dawning  of  the  day, 
Along  the  East,  wherein  the  morn 
Of  life  and  truth  was  gladly  born. 

We  sail  along  the  past,  and  see 

Great  Thebes  with  Karnak  at  her  knee. 


ALONG  THE  NILE. 

To  Isis  and  Osiris  rise 

The  prayers  and  smoke  of  sacrifice. 

'Mid  rites  of  priests  and  pomp  of  kings 

Again  the  seated  Memnon  sings. 

We  watch  the  palms  along  the  shore, 

And  dream  of  what  is  here  no  more. 

Unchangeable,  the  gliding  Nile, 
With  glossy  windings,  mile  on  mile, 
Suggests  the  asp :  in  coils  compact 
It  hisses  —  at  the  cataract. 
Thence  on  again  we  sail,  and  strand 
Upon  the  yellow  Nubian  sand, 
And  reach  that  rock-hewn  miracle, 
The  temple  of  Abou-Sambul. 

Who  cut  the  stone  joy  none  can  tell ; 
He  did  his  work,  like  Nature,  well. 
At  one  with  Nature,  calm  and  grand, 
The  faces  of  Rameses  stand. 
'T  is  seemly  that  the  noble  mind 
Somewhat  of  permanence  may  find, 
Whereon,  with  patience,  may  be  wrought 
A  clear  expression  of  its  thought. 

The  artist  labors  while  he  may, 
But  finds  at  best  too  brief  the  day; 
And,  tho'   his  works  outlast  the  time 
And  nation  that  they  make  sublime, 
He  feels  and  sees  that  Nature  knows 
Nothing  of  time  in  what  she  does, 
But  has  a  leisure  infinite 
Wherein  to  do  her  work  aright. 

The  Nile  of  virtue  overflows 

The  fruitful  lands  through  which  it  goes. 

It  little  cares  for  smile  or  slight, 

But  in  its  deeds  takes  sole  delight. 


THE  STATUE. 

And  in  them  puts  its  highest  sense, 
Unmindful  of  the  recompense ; 
Contented  calmly  to  pursue 
Whatever  work  it  finds  to  do. 

Howadji,  with  sweet  dreams  full  fraught, 
We  trace  this .  Nile  through  human  thought. 
Remains  of  ancient  grandeur  stand 
Along  the  shores  on  either  hand. 
Like  pyramids,  against  the  skies 
Loom  up  the  old  philosophies, 
And  the  Greek  king,  who  wandered  long, 
Smiles  from  uncrumbling  rock  of  song. 


THE  STATUE. 

IN  Athens,  when  all  learning  center'd  there, 
Men  reared  a  column  of  surpassing  height 
In  honor  of  Minerva,  wise  and  fair ; 
And  on  the  top,  which  dwindled  to  the  sight, 
A  statue  of  the  goddess  was  to  stand, 
That  wisdom  might  obtain  in  all  the  land. 

And  he  who,  with  the  beauty  in  his  heart, 
Seeking  in  faultless  work  immortal  youth, 
Would  mold  this  statue   with  the  finest  art, 
Making  the  wintry  marble   glow  with  truth, 
Should  gain  the  prize :  two  sculptors  sought  the  fame  - 
The  prize  they  craved  was  an  enduring  name. 

Alcamenes  soon  carved  his  little  best ; 

But  Phidias,  beneath  a  dazzling  thought 

That  like  a  bright  sun  in  a  cloudless  west 

Lit  up  his  wide,  great  soul,  with  pure  love  wrought 


4  THE  STATUE. 

A  statue,   and  its  changeless  face  of  stone 

With  calm,  far-sighted  wisdom  towered  and  shone. 

Then  to  be  judged  the  labors  were  unveiled; 

But,   at  the  marble  thought,  that  by  degrees 

Of  hardship  Phidias  cut,  the  people  railed. 

"  The  lines  are  coarse,  the  form  too  large,"  said  these ; 

"  And  he  who  sends  this  rough  result  of  haste 

Sends  scorn,  and  offers  insult  to  our  taste." 

Alcamenes'  praised  work  was  lifted  high 

Upon  the  capital  where  it  might  stand ; 

But  it  appeared  too  small  against  the  sky, 

And  lacked  proportion  from  uplooking  land; 

So  it  was  lowered  and  quickly  put  aside, 

And  the  scorned  thought  was  mounted  to  be  tried. 

Surprise  swept  o'er  the  faces  of  the  crowd, 

And  changed  them  as  a  sudden  breeze  may  change 

A  field  of  fickle  grass,  and  long  and  loud 

Their  mingled  shouts  to  see  a  sight  so  strange. 

The  statue  stood  completed  in  its  place, 

Each  coarse  line  melted  to  a  line  of  grace. 

All  bold,  great  actions  that  are  seen  too  near, 
Look  rash  and  foolish  to  unthinking  eyes ; 
But  at  a  distance  they  at  once  appear 
In  their  true  grandeur:  so  let  us  be  wise, 
And  not  too  soon  our  neighbor's  deed  malign, 
For  what  seems  coarse  may  yet  be  good  and  fine. 


TRAILING  ARBUTUS. 


TRAILING  ARBUTUS. 

IN  spring  when  branches  of  woodbine 
Hung  leafless  over  the  rocks, 

And  fleecy  snow  in  the  hollows 
Lay  in  unshepherded  flocks, 

By  the  road  where  dead  leaves  rustled, 
Or  damply  matted  the  ground, 

While  over  me  gurgled  the  robin 
His  honey'd  passion  of  sound, 

I  came  upon  trailing  arbutus 
Blooming  in  modesty  sweet, 

And  gathered  store  of  its  riches 
Offered  and  spread  at  my  feet. 

It  grew  under  leaves,  as  if  seeking 
No  hint  of  itself  to  disclose, 

And  out  of  its  pink-white  petals 
A  delicate  perfume  rose. 

As  faint  as  the  fond  remembrance 
Of  joy  that  was  only  dreamed, 

And  like  a  divine  suggestion 

The  scent  of  the  flower  seemed. 

I  sought  for  love  on  the  highway, 
For  love  unselfish  and  pure, 

And  found  it  in  good  deeds  blooming, 
Tho'  often  in  haunts  obscure. 

Often  in  leaves  by  the  wayside, 
But  touched  with  a  heavenly  glow, 

And  with  self-sacrifice  fragrant 
The  flowers  of  great  love  grow. 


THE  TROUBADOUR. 

0  lovely  and  lowly  arbutus ! 

As  year  unto  year  succeeds, 
Be  thou  the  laurel  and  emblem 

Of  noble,  unselfish  deeds ! 


THE  TROUBADOUR. 

So  many  poets  die  ere  they  are  known, 
I  pray  you,  hear  me  kindly  for   their  sake. 
Not  of  the  harp,  but  of  the  soul  alone, 
Is  the  deep  music  all  true  minstrels  make : 
Hear  my  soul's  music,  and  I  will  beguile, 
With  string  and  song,  your  festival  awhile. 

The  stranger,  looking  on  a  merry  scene 
Where  unknown  faces  shine  with  love  and  joy, 
Feels  that  he  is  a  stranger :  on  this  green 
That  fronts  the  castle,  seeing  your  employ, 
My  heart  sank  desolate ;  yet  came  I  near, 
For  welcome  should  be  found  at  all  good  cheer. 

Of  Provence  I,  and  ask  me  not,  I  pray, 
"  If  not  in  Provence,  where  may  love  abide  ?  " 
For  there,  Neglect,  that,  coming  down   the  way, 
Or  priest,  or  Levite,  takes  the  other  side, 
Neglect,  false  neighbor,  flung  at  me  the  scoff : 
"  Honor  is  cold,  and  is  the  most,  far  off !  " 

Love  is  the  key-note  of  the  universe  — 

The  theme,  the  melody;  though  poorly  decked, 

Masters,  I  ask  but  little  of  your  purse, 

For  love,  not  gold,  is  best  to  heal  neglect. 

Love  yields  true  fame  when  love  is  widely  sown ; 

Bloom,  flower  of  love !  —  lest  I,  too,  die  unknown. 


WHILE   THE  DAYS   GO  BY, 


WHILE  THE  DAYS  GO  BY. 

I  SHALL  not  say,  our  life  is  all  in  vain, 
For  peace  may  cheer  the  desolated  hearth; 
But  well  I  know  that,  on   this  weary  earth, 
Round  each  joy-island  is  a  sea  of  pain  — 
And  the  days  go  by. 

We  watch  our  hopes,  far  flickering  in  the  night, 
Once  radiant  torches,  lighted  in  our  youth, 
To  guide,  through  years,  to  some  broad  morn  of  truth ; 
But  these  go  out  and  leave  us  with  no  light  — 
And  the  days  go  by. 

We  see  the  clouds  of  summer  go  and  come, 
And  thirsty  verdure  praying  them   to  give : 
We  cry,  "  O  Nature,  tell  us  why  we  live !  " 
She  smiles  with  beauty,  but  her  lips  are  dumb  — 
And  the  days  go  by. 

Yet  what  are  we  ?     We  breathe,  we  love,  we  cease : 
Too  soon  our  little  orbits  change  and  fall: 
We  are  Fate's  children,  very  tired ;  and  all 
Are  homeless  strangers,  craving  rest  and  peace  — 
And  the  days  go  by. 

I  only  ask  to  drink  experience  deep  ; 
And,  in  the  sad,  sweet  goblet  of  my  years, 
To  find  love  poured  with  all  its  smiles  and  tears, 
And  quaffing  this,  I  too  shall  sweetly  sleep  — 
While  the  days  go  by. 


MAY  rN  KINGSTON. 


MAY  IN  KINGSTON. 

OUR  old  colonial  town  is  new  with  May : 
The  loving  trees  that  clasp   across  the  streets, 
Grow  greener  sleeved  with  bursting  buds  each  day. 
Still  this  year's  May  the  last  year's  May  repeats ; 
Even  the  old  stone  houses  half  renew 
Their  youth  and  beauty,  as  the  old  trees  do. 

High  over  all,  like  some  divine  desire 
Above  our  lower  thoughts  of  daily  care, 
The  gray,  religious,  heaven-touching  spire 
Adds  to  the  quiet  of  the  spring-time  air ; 
And  over  roofs  the  birds   create  a  sea, 
That  has  no  shore,  of  their  May  melody. 

Down  through  the  lowlands  now  of  lightest  green, 

The  undecided  creek  winds  on  its  way. 

There  the  lithe  willow  bends  with  graceful  mien, 

And  sees  its  likeness  in  the  depths  all  day ; 

While  in  the  orchards,  flushed  with  May's  warm  light, 

The  bride-like  fruit-trees  dwell,  attired  in  white. 

But  yonder  loom  the  mountains  old  and  grand, 

That  off,  along  dim  distance,  reach   afar, 

And  high  and  vast,  against  the  sunset  stand, 

A  dreamy  range,  long  and  irregular  — 

A  caravan  that  never  passes  by, 

Whose  camel-backs  are  laden  with  the  sky. 

So,  like  a  caravan,  our  outlived  years 
Loom  on  the  introspective  landscape  seen 
Within  the  heart:  and  now,  when  May  appears, 
And  earth  renews  its  vernal  bloom  and  green, 
We  but  renew  our  longing,  and  we   say : 
"Oh,  would  that  life  might  ever  be  all  May! 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

"  Would  that  the  bloom  of  youth  that  is  so  brief, 
The  bloom,  the  May,  the  fullness  ripe  and  fair 
Of  cheek  and  limb,  might  fade  not  as  the  leaf ; 
Would  that  the  heart  might  not  grow  old  with  care, 
Nor  love  turn  bitter,  nor  fond  hope  decay ; 
But  soul  and  body  lead  a  life  of  May ! " 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

THE    POET. 

WHO  art   thou,  mighty  spirit, 

That,  in  the  twilight  deep, 
Makest  a  deeper  twilight, 

Invading  tired  sleep? 
The  new  moon,  like  a  jewel, 

Shines  on  thy  forehead  high, 
And  shows  thy  wavy  outline 

Along  the  mellow  sky. 

Thy  ample  sides  are  shaggy 

With  maple,  oak,  and  pine  ; 
Thy  foot  is    shod  with  verdure  ; 

Thy  breath  is  more  than  wine. 
The  brooklet  is  thy  laughter ; 

The  light  cloud  likes  thy  brow. 
Speak   from  thy  breezy  summit, 

Say,  spirit,  who  art  thou  ? 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    THE    MOUNTAIN. 

I  am  the  far-seen  mountain 
Before  thee  towering  high, 

Where,  peak  beyond  peak  reaching, 
Rise  others  such  as  I. 

Our  dark-blue  robes  at  twilight 
We  draw  about  our  forms  ; 


10  THE  SPIRIT  OF   THE  MOUNTAIN. 

Ours  is  the  boundless  quiet 
That  dwells  above  the  storms. 

I  am  a  patient  spirit 

That  worked  beneath  the  sea, 
And,  from  hills  pre-existing, 

Built  up  the  hills  to  be. 
To  shifting  sands  I  added 

Pebble  and  limy  shell, 
And  laid,  in   briny  chasms, 

My  deep  foundations  well. 


THE    POET. 

O  Spirit  of  the  Mountain! 

O  toiler  deep  of  yore  ! 
Vast  is  thy  past   behind  thee, 

Thy  future  vast  before. 
We  call  thee   everlasting; 

Our  life  is  like  a  day; 
Are  time  and  tide  against  thee  ? 

Must  thou  too  pass  away? 


THE    SPIRIT    OF   THE    MOUNTAIN. 

I  see  thy  generation, 

Who  wither  as  the  rose, 
And  feel  the  isolation 

That  wraps  unmoved  repose. 
What  through  uncounted  ages 

I  wrought  in  sunless  deeps, 
Now,   with  the  suns  of  heaven, 

Its  lofty  vigils  keeps ! 

Yet  slowly,  ever  slowly, 
I  melt  again,  to  be 


RECOMPENSE.  11 

Lost  in  my  grand,  gray  lover, 

The  wild,  unresting  sea. 
I  cannot  hear  his  moaning ; 

But  know  that,  on  the  shore, 
He  flings  his  spray-arms  toward  me, 

And  calls  me  ever  more. 


RECOMPENSE. 

IN  spring,  two  robins  from  the  southern  lands 
Built  a  brown  nest  upon  an  unsafe  limb 
Of  the  large  tree  that  by  my  window  stands, 
And  every  morn  they  praised  God  with  a  hymn ; 
And,  when  a  certain  season  passed  away, 
Five  light-green  eggs  within  the  building  lay. 

Above,  the  rush  and  clatter  of  the  street, 
Devotedly  was  guarded  each  green   trust, 
And  the  round  house  was  an  abode  most  sweet, 
Roofed  with  expectant  wings :   better  to  rust 
With  iron  patience,  than  forego   a  hope, 
And  pent  life  in  the  shells  was  felt  to  grope. 

But  one  dread  day,  before  the  sun  went  down, 
A  cloud  arose,  a  black  and  monstrous  hand, 
That  robbed  the  sunset  of  its  golden  crown, 
Filled  the  wild  sky,  and  shook  the  frightened  land. 
The  portals  of  the  storm  were   opened  wide, 
And  pealing  thunder  rolled  on  every  side. 

Then  was  it  some  unchained,  malicious  gust 
Broke  off  the  limb  on  which  the  nest  was  stayed, 
And  to  the  ground  the  tender  dwelling  thrust, 
And  wrecked  its  hapless  store.    The  birds,  dismayed, 
Were  shrill  with  grief,  and  beat  the  moving  air 
With  wings  whose  frantic  whir  was  like  despair. 


12  DONALD. 

At  dawn,  my  friends  who  live  across  the  way, 
Sent  me   the  whisper  that  their  child  was  dead ; 
And,   when  they  led  to  where  the  body  lay  — 
The  free,  winged  spirit's  shell,  untimely  shed  — 
And  the  wild  cries  of  their  distress  I  heard, 
My  sympathy  again  was  deeply  stirred. 

Yet  grief  is  but  a  cloud  that  soon  is  past; 
Hither  the  mated  robins  came  once  more, 
And  built,  with  cunning  architecture,  fast 
In  the  same  tree  beside  my  friendly  door ; 
And  in  the  soft-floored  building  could  be  seen 
Five  sources  of  sweet  music,  new  and  clean. 

Time  passed,  and  to  the  good  home  opposite 
Another  babe  was  born,  and  all  the  love 
That  was  bereft  that  fierce  and  stormy  night, 
Fell  to  the  latter  child  as  from  above : 
And  in  the  nest  five  yellow  mouths  one  day 
Of  their  impatient  hunger  made  display. 


DONALD. 

O  WHITE,  white,  light  moon,  that  sailest  in  the  sky, 
Look   down   upon   the   whirling  world,  for  thou  art  up 

so  high, 
And   tell    me   where   my  Donald   is   who    sailed   across 

the  sea, 
And  make  a  path  of  silver  light  to  lead  him  back  to  me. 

O  white,  white,  bright  moon,  thy  cheek  is  coldly  fair, 
A   little    cloud   beside   thee    seems    thy   wildly   floating 

hair; 
And  if  thou  would'st  not   have   me   grow  as  white  and 

cold  as  thee, 
Go,  make  a  mighty  tide  to  draw  my  Donald  back  to  me. 


IN  THE    VALLEY.  13 

0  light,  white,  bright  moon,  that  dost   so  fondly  shine, 
There    is    not   a   lily   in   the   world  but   hides   its    face 

from  thine ; 

1  too  shall  go  and  hide  my  face  close  in  the  dust  from 

thee, 

Unless  with  light  and  tide  thou  bring  my  Donald  back 
to  me. 


IN  THE  VALLEY. 

THIS  is  the  place  —  a  grove  of  sighing  pines ; 
Their  fallen  tassels  thatch  the  roofs  with  brown, 
The  narrow  roofs,  beneath  whose  small  confines 
No  dweller  wakens :    tho'  the  rains  weep  down, 
Tho'  winds,  the  mighty  mourners,  by  the  spot 
Go  unconsoled,  the  inmates  waken  not. 

Along  the  unbusy  street  my  way  I  keep, 

Between  the  houses  tenanted  by  death, 

And  seek  the  place  where  lies  my  friend  asleep, 

Alien  to  this  the  life  of  light  and  breath. 

And  here  his  grave,  where  wild  vines  bloom  and  grope, 

Makes  recollection   seem  as  sweet  as  hope. 

For  he,  my  friend,  was  gentle,  wise  and  true  ; 

Pleasant  to  him  a  beggar's  thankful  word; 

He  spoke  no  ill  of  others,  and  he  knew 

And  loved   clear  brooks,  green   dells,   and  flower,   and 

bird  ; 

And  now  the  flowers  strive  to  return  his  love 
By  growing  here  his  humble  grave  above. 

But  tears  are  more  than  flowers,  and  make  for  peace, 

Tho'  God  by  grief  is  oft  misunderstood. 

In  tears  I  made  complaint  of  his  decease 

Whom  I  had  loved,  for  he  was  young  and  good  ; 


14  LOW  TIDE. 

I  made  complaint  that  He  who  rules  on  high 
Should  suffer  here  the  young  and  good  to  die. 

O  Death !  sole  warder  at  the  gates  of  time, 

For  ever  more  to  those  thy  hinge  swing  wide 

Whose   hope   is   flown,   whose   souls    are    stained    with 

crime  — 

Give  way  to  all  who  are  dissatisfied 
With  their  recurrent  days,  and  long  to  cease ; 
Swing  wide  for  such,  and  to  the  old  give  peace. 

But  close  and  bar  thy  hlack  and  mournful  gates 
Against  the  good,  the  beautiful,  the  young, 
Whose  lives  the  lamp  of  hope  illuminates, 
Whose  harp-like  souls  for  highest  strains  are  strung. 
O  warder  Death !   give  way,  swing  wide  for  sin ; 
But  close,  and  bar,  and  keep  the  good  witliin. 


LOW  TIDE. 

UNDER  the  cliff  I  walk  in  silence, 

Where  the  wide  waters  ebb  and  flow; 

And  white  birds,  changed  by  the  sun  into  silver, 
Glitter  against  the  blue  below ; 

And  the  tide  is  low. 

Here  years  ago,  in  golden  weather, 
Under  the  cliff,  and  close  to  the  sea, 

A  pledge  was  given  that  made  me  master 
Of  all  that  ever  was  dear  to  me ; 

And  the  tide  was  low. 

Only  a  little  year  fled  by  after, 

Then  my  bride  and  I  came  once  more, 
And  saw  the  sea,  like  a  bird   impi-isoned 


THE  PATIENCE   OF  LIBERTY.  15 

Beating  its  wings  at  its    bars,  the  shore ; 
And   the  tide  was  low. 

Now  I  walk  alone  by  the  filmy  breakers  — 
A  voice  is  hushed  I  can  never  forget ; 

On  my  saddened  sea  dead   calm  has  fallen, 
My  ships  are  harbored,  my  sun  is  set ; 
And  the  tide  is  low. 


THE  PATIENCE  OF  LIBERTY. 

As  in  a  dream  I  saw  her,  where  she  stood, 
Calm,  self-contained,  the  goddess  of  the  free, 
Upon  a  height  above  the  storm  and  flood, 
Looking  far  off  on  what  was  like  the  sea. 
Her  gown  was  plain :  her  freedman's  cap  she  wore, 
And,  by  her  side,  the  rod  magistral  bore. 

The  lofty  heights  whereon  she  dwells  alone, 
To  many  hearts  seem  hard  indeed  to  scale  ; 
Wilder  than  those  above  the  Yellowstone, 
With  rugged  paths  swept  by  the  leaden  hail 
Wherewith  Oppression,  in  his  selfish  rage, 
Drives  back  her  worshipers  in  every  age. 

Few  are  the  ways  that  lead  to  where  she  stands, 

Not  filled  with  slain  and  hedged  with  bloody  death ; 

But  now  I  saw  her  on  the  misty  lands, 

And  sweeter  than  the  morning's  was  her  breath, 

And  radiant  with  glory  shone  her  face, 

Kindly,  sublime,  and  of  immortal  grace. 

"  Thine  is  the  land  where  all,  at  last,  are  free  ; 

But  is  thy  freedom  real  or  a  dream  ?  " 

She  asked ;  "  and  dost  thou  not  despair  of  me, 


16  MARY  MAGDALENE. 

To  see  my  rights  abused,  wealth  made  supreme, 
Truth  scorned  by  party  zeal,  and  everywhere, 
Honors  degraded  ?  —  dost  thou   not  despair  ?  " 

I  knew  that  these,  her  questions,  were  a  test, 
And  from  the  fullness  of  my  faith  I  said : 
"  O  Liberty  !  there  is  not  in  my  breast 
Harbor  to  moor  thy  doubt ;  the  blood  we  shed, 
The  bitter  tears,  the    long,  heart-rending  pain, 
Were  all  for  thee ;  they  have  not  been  in  vain. 

"  Often  a  public  wrong  a  use  fulfills, 

And,  tho'  not  left  unpunished,  leads  to  good ; 

I  look  to  time  to  cure  a  thousand   ills, 

And  make  thee  widely,  better  understood. 

True  love  of  thee  will  heal  the  wrongs  we  bear; 

I  trust  to  time,  and  I  do  not  despair !  " 

She  stood  with  one  hand  on  her  eagle's  head, 

The  other  pointed  to  an  age  to  be. 

"  Neither  do  I  despair,"  she  proudly  said, 

"  For  I  behold  the  future,  and  I  see 

The  shadow  and  the  darkness  overpast, 

My  glad  day  come,  and  all  men  free  at  last ! " 


MARY  MAGDALENE. 

ALL  night  I  cried  in  agony 

Of  grief  and  bitter  loss, 
And  wept  for  Him  whom  they  had  nailed 

Against  the  shameful  cross. 

But  in  the  morning,  in  the  dark, 

Before  the  east  was  gray, 
I  hastened  to  the  sepulcher 

Wherein  the  body  lay. 


MARY  MAGDALENE.  17 

The  stone  was  rolled  away  I  found ; 

And  filled  with  fear  and  woe, 
I  straight  to  His  disciples  ran, 

Thereof  to  let  them  know. 

I  said,  "The  body  of  the  Lord 

Is  not  within  the  tomb ; 
For  they  have  taken  him  away 

Unnoticed  in  the  gloom. 

"  Where  have  they  laid  him  ?  who  can  tell  ? 

Alas  !  we  know  not  where." 
The  words  were  slower  than  my  tears 

To  utter  my  despair. 

Then  two  disciples,  coming  forth, 

With  hurried  footsteps  sped, 
Till,  at  the  garden   sepulcher, 

They  found  as  I  had  said. 

They  saw  the  door-stone  rolled  away, 

The  empty  tomb  and  wide, 
The  linen  face-cloth  folded  up 

And  grave-clothes  laid  aside. 

The  morn  was  cold;  I  heeded  not, 

With  sorrow  wrapped  about; 
Till  both  were  gone  to  tell    the  rest, 

I  stood  and  wept  without. 

Then  stooping  down  and   looking  in, 

I  saw  two  angels  there, 
Whose  faces  shone  with  love  and  joy, 

And  were  divinely  fair. 

In  white  effulgence  garmented, 

That  showed  the  hewn  rock's  grain, 


18  MARY  MAGDALENE. 

One  at  the  head,  one  at  the  feet, 
Sat  where  my  Lord  had  lain. 

To  look  on  them  I  was  afraid, 
Their  splendor  was  so  great: 

They  said  to  me,  "  Why  weepest  thou  ?  " 
In  tones  compassionate. 

"I  weep,"  I  said,  "for  that  my  Lord 

Is  taken  hence  away, 
And  that,  alas!  I  do  not  know 

Where  he  is  laid  to-day." 

I  sadly  rose,  and  turning  hack, 

Beheld  One    standing  by, 
And  knew  the  lily  of  the  dawn 

Unfolded  in  the  sky. 

But  in  the  pale,  uncertain  light, 
Too  blind  with  tears  to  see, 

I  thought  it  was  the  gardener 
There  at  the  tomb  with  me. 

It  soothed  me  much,  the  day  before, 

To  say  it  in  my  mind, 
That  in  a  garden  they  had  laid 

The  Flower  of  all  mankind. 

Until  Thy  fragrance  fell  on  me, 
A  thrall  to  sin  was  I ; 

0  Flower  of  Peace !     O  Flower  of  Grace ! 
Thy  love  is  liberty ! 

But  they  had  taken  him  away, 
Who  is  of  sin  the  price  ; 

1  held  the  gift  that  I  had  brought, 
Of  perfume,  oil,  and  spice. 


THE  AGE   OF   GOOD.  19 

I  had  not  staid  to  braid  my  hair, 

And,  in  the  early  breeze, 
The  long,  black  luster,  damp  with  tears, 

Down  fluttered  to  my  knees. 

I  dimly  saw  the  gardener ; 

In  grief  I  bowed  my  head ; 
"  Why  weepest  thou  ?   whom  seekest  thou  ?  " 

He  softly,   gently  said. 

"  O  sir,  if  thou  have  borne  him  hence," 

I  eagerly  replied, 
"  Tell  me  where  thou  hast  laid  my  Lord, 

Whom  they  have  crucified, 

"  And  I  will  take  him  thence  away  ; 

Oh,  tell  me  where  he  lies !  " 
"  Mary  !  "  he  said  —  I  knew  the  voice, 

And  turned  in  glad  surprise. 

For  he  was  not  the  gardener 

That  I  advanced  to  greet ; 
I  cried,  "  Rabboni !  "  joyfully, 

And  knelt  at  Jesus'  feet. 


THE  AGE  OF  GOOD. 

I  HAD  a  vision  of  mankind  to  be : 
I  saw  no  grated  windows,  heard  no  roar 
From  iron  mouths  of  war  on  land  or  sea; 
Ambition  broke  the  sway  of  peace  no  more. 
Out  of  the  chaos  of  ill-will  had  come 
Cosmos,  the  Age  of  Good,  Millennium ! 

The  lowly  hero  had  of  praise  his  meed, 
And  loving-kindnesses  joined   roof  to  roof. 


20  KARAGWE. 

The  poor  were  few,   and  to  their  daily  need 
Abundance  ministered :  men  bore  reproof ; 
On  crags  of  self-denial  sought  to  cull 
Rare  flowers  to  deck  their  doors  hospitable. 

The  very  bells  rang  out  the  Golden  Rule, 
For  hearts  were  loath  to  give  their  fellows  pain. 
The  man  was  chosen  chief  who,  brave  and  cool, 
Was  king  in  act  and  thought :   wise  power  is  plain 
And  likes  not  pomp  and  show ;    he  seemed  to  be 
The  least  in  all  that  true  democracy. 

O  Thou,  the  Christ,  the  Sower  of  the  seed, 
Pluck  out  the  narrowness,  the  greed  for  pelf ; 
Pluck  out  all  tares ;   the  time  let  come,  and  speed, 
When  each  will  love  his  neighbor  as  himself ! 
The  hopes  of  man,  our  dreams  of   higher  good, 
Are  based  on  Thee ;  we  are  Thy  brotherhood. 


KARAGWE. 


Because  the  sun  bath  looked  upon  me. 

THE  Soxo  OF  SOLOMON. 


AN  African,  thick-lipped  and  heavy-heeled, 
With  woolly  hair,  large  eyes,  and  even  teeth, 
A  forehead  high,  and  beetling  at  the  brows 
Enough  to  show  a  strong  perceptive  thought 
Ran  out  infallibly  beyond  his  sight  — 
A  savage  with  no  knowledge  we  possess 
Of  science,  art,  or  books,  or  government  — 
A  captive  black  bereft  of  rights,  inthralled, 
Bought  from  a  slaver  off  the   Georgia  coast, 
His  life  a  thing  of  price  with  market  rate ; 
Yet  in  the  face  of  all,   a  brave,   true  man, 
Kara-gwe,  named  for  an  Afric  tribe. 


KARAGWE.  21 

His  buyer  was  the  planter  Dalton  Earl, 
Of  Valley  Earl,   an  owner  of  broad  lands', 
Whose  wife,  in  some  cold  daybreak  of  the  past, 
Had  tarried  with  the  shadows  of  the  night ; 
But  parting,  left  him  of  their  love  a  child. 
He  named  it  Coralline :    by  sad  waves  tossed, 
She  was  a  spray  of  coral  fair  to  see, 
Found  on  the  shore  where  death's  impatient  deep 
Hems  in  the  narrow  continent  of  life. 


n. 

Each  day  brought  health  and  strength  to  Karagwe ; 
Each  day  he  worked  where  white  the  cotton  grew, 
And  every  boll  he  picked  had  thought  in  it. 
Strange  fancies,  faced  with  ignorance  and  doubt, 
Came  crowding,  peering  in  his  heathen  mind, 
Like  men  who,  gathered  in  some  rich  bazaar, 
Elbow,  to  see  arrive  the  caravan. 

All  things  were  new  and  wonderful  to  him. 
What  were  the  papers  that  his  owner  read  ? 
What  meant  the  black  and  ant-like  characters  ? 
He  found  a  leaf  of  them  and  gazed  at  it, 
Trying  to  understand  their  voiceless  speech. 
This,  Dalton  Earl  with  cloudy  look  beheld, 
And  seized  the  print,  commanding  that  the  slave 
Have  twenty  lashes  for  this  breach  of  law. 

Long  on  his  sentence  pondered  Karagwe. 
Against  the  law  ?     Who  then  would  make  a  law 
Decreeing  knowledge  to  a  few  proud  men, 
To  others  ignorance  ?     Surely  not  God  ; 
The  white-haired  negro  with  a  text  had  said 
That  God  loved  justice,  and  was  Friend  to  all. 

With  blood  replying  redly  to  each  stroke, 
With  dark  skin  clinging  ghastly  to  the  whip, 


22  KARAGWE. 

The  slave  bore  up  beneath  his  punishment ; 
His  heart,   indignant,  shaking  his  broad  breast, 
Strong  as  the  heart  that  Hippodaraia  wept, 
Which,  with  the  cold,  intrusive  brass  thrust  through, 
Shook  the  Greek  spear  to  its  extremity. 

m. 

Henceforth  the  black  man's   energy,  enforced 
By  the  one  vile  argument  of  the  lash, 
Pursued  a  quest  for  knowledge,  and  secured, 
In  paths  familiar,   pleasant  wayside  flowers. 
The  old  slave  preacher   knew  the  alphabet, 
And  taught  it,  when  he  might,  to  Karagwe, 
Whose  books  were  crumbs  of  paper  printed  on, 
Found  here  and  there,  strewed  by  the  handless  wind. 
He  studied  in  the  woods   and  near  the  falls 
That  shoot  in  watery   arrows  from  the  cliff, 
Feathered  with  spray   and  barbed  with  hues  of  flint. 

Once,  looking  up,  he  saw,  upon  the  verge, 
Fair  baby  Coralline,   that,  laughing,  leaned 
Over  the  abyss  to  grasp  a  butterfly. 
Ere  paused  he  panting  on  the  dizzy  height, 
A  shriek  rose  shrill  above  the  water's  roar; 
The  child  had  fallen,   and  a  young  quadroon 
Lay  on  the  slanted   summit,  swooned  away. 
The  child  had  fallen,   but  was  yet  unharmed. 
Karagwe  slipped  down  where  ran  a  narrow  ledge, 
And,  reaching  forth,  caught  fast  the  little  frock, 
Whose  folds  were  tangled  in  a  bending  shrub, 
And  drew  his  frightened  burden  safely  back. 

The  slave  told  no  man  of  this  perilous  deed, 
Nor  spoke  of  any  merit  he  possessed, 
Or  any  worthy  act  that  he  had  done. 


KARAGWE.  23 

IV. 

By  being  always  when  he  could  alone, 

By  often  wandering  in  the  woods  and  fields, 

He  came  at  last  to  live  in  revery. 

But  little  thought  is  found  in  revery, 

But  little  thought,  for  most  is  useless  dream ; 

And  whoso  dreams  may  never  learn  to  act. 

The  dreamer  and  the  thinker  are  not  kin. 

Sweet  revery  is  like  a  little  boat 

That  idly  drifts  along  a  listless  stream  — 

A  painted  boat,  afloat  without  an  oar. 

The  negro  preacher  with  the  text  had  said 

That  when  men  died  the  soul  lived  on  and  on : 

If  so,  of  what  material  was  the  soul? 

The  eyes  could  not  behold  it :   might  not  then 

The  viewless  air  be  filled  with  living  souls  ? 

Not  these  alone,  but  other  vague,  strange  forms 

Around  us  at  all  times  could  dwell  unseen. 

If  air  was  only  matter  rarefied, 

Why  might  not  things  still  more   impalpable 

Have  real  existence  ?     Whence  came  our  thoughts  ? 

They  were  not  ours :    he  fancied  that  they  all, 

Or  good,  or  bad,  were  whispered  to  the  soul : 

The  bad  were  the  suggestions  of  a  shape 

With  measureless  black  wings,  that  when  it  dared 

Set  on  the  necks  of  men  its  cloven  foot ; 

But,  winged  with  light,  a  spirit  eloquent 

Named  Wisdom,  with  his  son,  Humanity, 

Whispered  good  thoughts,  and  told  this  groping  heart, 

That  sunset  splendors  were  as  naught  compared 

With  the  great  glory  of  a  noble  deed. 

He  proudly  dreamed  that  to  no  other  mind 
Had  been  revealed  these  trite  imaginings. 
Alas !    poor  heart,  how  many  have  awoke, 


24  KARAGWE. 

And  found  their  newest  thoughts  not  new  but  old, 
Their  brightest  fancies  woven  in  the  silk 
Of  ancient  poems,  history  or  romance, 
And  learning  still  elusive  and  far  off! 

v. 

The  young  quadroon  who  fainted  on  the  cliff 
Was  Ruth;    she,  born  a  thrall  to  Dalton  Earl, 
Was  now  a  conscious  rose  of  womanhood. 
She  looked  on  Karagwe,  and  saw  in  him 
A  man  above  the  level  of  the  slave, 
A  palm-tree  in  a  wide,  neglected  land. 

While  both,  at  twilight,  on  a  rustic  seat 

Sat  talking,  laughing  with  that  careless  mirth 

In  which  their  race  forgot  its  chains  and  toil, 

A  drunken  overseer  staggered  up, 

And  seeing  a  woman  sitting  in  the  dusk, 

Swayed  toward  her,  caught  her  rudely  by  the  arm, 

And,  with  an  insult,  strove  to  drag  her  forth. 

Ruth  trembled,  fawn-like ;  but  the  negro  rose, 

And,  with  his  grasp,  freed  her  the  white  man's  hand. 

Then  in  the  face  the  coward  struck  the  slave, 

Who  neither  struck  him  back  nor  uttered  word. 

But  to  a  whipping-post  they  bound  the  black, 
And  many  stripes  his  unhealed  shoulders  flayed. 
Stung  by  the  wrong,  but  lifted  with  just  scorn, 
That  men,  who  claimed  to  be  superior, 
Would  thus  degrade  their  unoffending  kind, 
He  wept  at  heart ;  no  groan,  no  cry  of  pain, 
Made  audible  their  inhumanity. 

Quickly  thereafter  he  was  forced  to  go 

And  toil  beneath  the  summer's  burning  glare. 


KARAGWE.  25 

In  a  large  basket,  on  his  wounded  back, 

Up  a  steep  hillside  to  a  cotton-gin, 

All  the  day  long,  he  bore  the  tyrannous, 

Truth-smothering  product  of  the  slave-worked  fields. 

VI. 

Ruth,  in  her  household  cares  and  restful  hours, 
Thought  of  the  one  dark  face  and  noble  heart. 

He,  when  the  labor  of  the  day  was  done, 

Moved  through  the  dusk,  between  the  dewy  leaves, 

And,  softly  as  a  shadow,  climbed   the  wall, 

And  waited  in  the  garden,  crouching  down, 

Hidden  and  breathed  on  by  abundant   bloom, 

Hoping  that  she  again  might  come  that  way. 

He  saw  her,  by  a  window  of  the  house, 

Pass  and  repass  within,  and  heard  her  sing 

A  wooing  song  of  love  and  pity  blent; 

But  would  not  call  to  her,  nor  give  a  sign 

That  he  was  near  ;  to  see  her  was   enough. 

Perhaps,  if  those  she  dwelt  with   knew  he  came 

To  meet  her  in  the  garden,  they  would  place 

On  her  some  punishment,  some  sharp  restraint, 

That  she,  tho'  innocent,  might  have  to  bear. 

So  he  went  back  again  to  his  low  cot, 

And  on  his  poor,  straw  pallet,  dreamed  of  her 

As  loyally,  may  be,  as  any  prince, 

Lying  asleep  on  down  and  broideiy,  » 

Dreams  of  his  queen. 

VII. 

Ruth  was  but  tinged  with  shade. 
Her  black,  bright  eyes,  so  proud  and  passionate, 
Showed  that  the  deep  and  everlasting  soul, 
Who  through  their  liquid  portals  saw  the  world, 


26  KARAGWE. 

Was  mixed  with  elements  of  storm  and  gloom. 
For  never  bird  of  thought  flew  down  her  sky, 
But  that  the  shadow  of  its  flitting  wing 
Passed  in  her  eyes :  like  leaves  along  the  brink, 
Above  the  depths  her  thick,  long  lashes  hung. 
Such  excellent  adornment  was  her   grace, 
That,  tho'  her  gown  was  of  the  coarsest  kind, 
Hers  was  apparel  more  desirable 
Than  costly  splendor  woven  by  the  loom. 

vm. 

A  vast  plantation,  joining  Dalton  Earl's, 
Was  held  by  Richard  Wain,  a  hated  man  — 
Hated  of  owned  and  hired  and  in  the  town. 

Where  the  fair  river  limited  his  lands 

Seclusion  sweet  was  found  by  Karagwe. 

For  there  a  noble  temple,  pillared,  aisled, 

Rose  toward  heaven  :  aloft,  the  vaulted  roof, 

Verdure  of  frieze  and  cornice,  and  beneath, 

A  fragrant  carpet  and  mossed  seats  of  stone  — 

A  grove  of  pines.     Here,  hidden  in  a  tree, 

Was  treasure  kept  —  a  bible  small  and  worn. 

From  it  the  past  arose  before  the  slave ; 

The  folk  were  vague,  and  their  procession  seemed 

Like  figures  moving  slowly  in  the  dusk  ; 

Yet  One  there  was,  who,  center'd  in  great  light, 

Stood  out,  determinate,  and  full  of  life  : 

A  pure,  surpassing  face,  with  silken  beard ; 

Long,  golden  hair  that  waved  about  the  neck ; 

Mild  eyes  of  deepest  azure,  thoughtful  eyes 

Filled  with  the  knowledge  of   eternity : 

A  man  patient,  beneficent,  divine, 

Friend  to  the  poor,  and  Messenger  of  love. 


KARA  OWE.  27 

IX. 

While  walking  near  the  house  of  Richard  Wain, 

The  slave  beheld  a  paper  in  the  grass, 

Whose  sheets  were  closely  written,  signed  and  sealed. 

Thus  came  the  chance  for  which  he  oft  had  sought, 
To  learn  the  older  letters  of   the  pen. 
That  night  the  writing,  wrapped  about  his  book, 
Lay  nestled  in  the  hollow,  up  a  tree. 

There  once,  indeed,  a  wedded  pair  had   been, 
That  with  white  softness  lined  the  balmy  place. 
And  hatched  within  it  callow  occupants ; 
These  being  fledged,  all,    singing,  flew  away. 

x. 

"What  token  shall  I  give,"  thought  Karagwe, 
"  That  she  may  know  from  it  my  love  for  her, 
And  I  learn  whether  love  has  answered  mine  ?  " 
A  straying  bee,  of  sweet  and  golden  wealth, 
He  caught  and  killed,  and  carried  it  to  Ruth. 
"  I  bring  you,  Ruth,  a  dead  bee  for  a  sign ; 
For  if  to-day  you  wear  it  in  your  hair, 
When  once  again  you  come  to  walk  this  path, 
I  thus  shall  find  that  you  are  mine  alone, 
Willing  to  be  my  wife,  and  share  my  lot, 
And  let  me  with  you  toil  like  bee  with  bee  ; 
But  if  you  do  not  wear  it,  then  I  shall  care 
No  more  for  anything ;  but  waste  my  life, 
A  bee  without  a  queen."     Ruth  said  no  word ; 
But  when  she  went  that  way  at  one-starred  dusk, 
The  dead  bee  glimmered  in  her  dusky  hair. 
And  meeting  him  for  whom  the  sign  was  meant, 
She  laid  her  hand  in  his,  and  fondly  smiled. 


J  KARAGWE. 

XI. 

Came,  trilling  wildly  sweet,  a  bird-like  voice, 

When  Richard  Wain  next  day  went  riding  by, 

And  caught,  mid  foliage,  a  glimpse  of  Ruth  — 

A  momentary  picture  framed  in  flowers. 

"  The  prize  I  covet  most  is  near,"  he  said  ; 

"  She  shall  be  mine  to-morrow,  weep  who    may !  " 

Returning  on  his  over-driven  horse, 

When  shadows  slowly  lengthened  from  the  west, 

He  near  the  house  dismounted,  fastened  rein, 

Strode  to  a  threshold,  asked  for  Dalton  Earl, 

And  told  him  for  what  chattel  he  had  come. 

The  maid  was  not  for  sale,  the  owner  said. 

"  You  talk  at  random  now,"  said  Richard  Wain  ; 

"  You  know  I  hold  the  deed  of  all  your  lands. 

If  it  be  true,  the  wench  is  not  for  sale, 

Your  lands  shall  be  for  sale,  at  sheriff's  sale  ! " 

Pale  turned  the  haughty  planter,  Dalton  Earl, 

And  knowing,  for  his  trouble  came  of  it, 

Whose  blood  made  blue  the  fiery  veins  of  Ruth, 

Fixed  blindly  on  a  price  immoderate. 

"  To-morrow  I  shall  come,"  said  Richard  Wain, 

"And  take  the  girl,  and  pay  the   price  I  choose." 

When  Dalton  Earl  had  told  the  thrall  her  fate, 

She  swooned,  and  to  the  floor  fell  heavily. 

Recovering,  she  rose  upon  her  knees, 

And  begged  of  him  that  she  might  still  remain. 

At  this  he  told  her  how  the  lands  were  held, 

And,  if  she  went  not,  these  would  all  be  sold. 

"  Then  let  the  lands  be  sold,  and  sold  again ; 

If  his,  they  are  not  yours.     What  good  will  come 

If  I  do  go  to  him  ?     Then  all  were  his  ; 

And  I  have  given  my  hand  to  Karagwe. 

Oh,  it  will  break  my  heart  to  go  away ! " 


KARAGWE.  29 

XII. 

To  Karagwe's  low  roof  Ruth  went  that  night, 
And  said  in  loud,  wild  words  the  evil  news, 
She  must  be  slave  and  worse   to  Richard  Wain. 
The  negro  sadly  strove  to  soothe  her  woe 
With  consolation  from  the  hook  he  read ; 
For,  to  the  souls  of  black  and  Afric  slaves, 
The  gospel  came  unhindered  by  a  doubt; 
And  there  accepted  freely,  being  free, 
Was  rapturous  delight  —  enthusiasm  ! 
Masking  the  dreary  face  of  hopelessness 
With  gospel  cheer,  the  negro  talked  with  Ruth, 
While  walking  toward  the  home  of  Dalton  Earl. 
Glory  of  night,  the  restless  moon  was  like 
A  pale  cloud-sheeted  ghost  of  a  dead  day, 
Gliding  abroad  to  ease  the  ache  of  hell ; 
For  heavy  sorrow,  disappointment  deep, 
Sickens  the  heart  not  only,  but  the  eyes, 
Transforming  nature  to  iU  shapes  of  gloom. 

xni. 

A  troublous  morning  came  to  Valley  Earl, 
And  Ruth  was  sold  away  from  him  she  loved. 

The  sad  day  died,  and  in  its  vaulted  tomb 

Karagwe  lolled  upon  the  river's  bank, 

His  mind  a  flowing  tide  that  wandered  back 

Along  the  course  and  valley  of  the  past. 

It  eddied  round  his  loss  as  round  a  rock, 

And  roused  the  snake,  revenge,  that  lay  thereon. 

Sprang  up  the  slave,  and  wildly  beat  his  breast, 

His  eyes  enkindled  with  an  evil  fire. 

Then  came  some  memory  of  holy  writ, 

And  in  the  depths  the  serpent   disappeared. 

The  negro  mourned  that  justice  seldom  was ; 


30  KARAGWE. 

Yet  knew  that  in  God's  hand  the  scales  were   set, 
And,  tho'  His  poor  down-trodden  waited  long, 
They  waited  surely  for  the  balancing. 

A  step  was  heard,  and  Karagwe  beheld, 

By  dim  aid  of  white  moonlight,   Richard  Wain; 

Behind,  another  followed  stealthily, 

With  a  drawn  dagger  in  his  lifted  hand. 

The  steel,  as  if  it  feared  a  deed  of  blood, 

Gleamed  to  the  slave  its  dread  intelligence. 

He  followed  swift  the  weapon ed  follower, 

Grasped  the  raised  hand,  wrenching  the  blade  away, 

And  stood  before  the  planter,  Dalton  Earl! 

"  Forgive,"  he  said.     "  Forgiveness  is  a  slave  ; 

She  has  no  pride  nor  hate  ;  she  does  no  harm ; 

For  she  is  light  of  heart,  and  meekly  good, 

And  patient  when  the  lash  of  anger  smites." 

Rebuked,  the  master  stood  before  the  slave ; 

And  Richard  Wain,  who  sneered  when  he  was  told 

That  Ruth  and  Karagwe  had  plighted  troth, 

Went  on  unscathed,  saved  by  the  man  he  scorned. 

Thus  Dalton  Earl :  "I  thank  you  for  this  act, 

Thwarting  a  bad  intent ;  yet  I  had  cause 

To  take  the  sullied  life  of  Richard  Wain. 

He  drugged  the  wine  he  gave  me  at  his  house, 

Knowing  the  deed  of  my  plantation  there 

Was  my  sole  title  :  while  I  lay  in  sleep 

He,  shameless,  stole  it  from  me  :   when  I  woke, 

He  feigned  that  I  had  staked  the  deed  and  lost. 

For  this  and  more  I  hate  him  :    to  forgive 

Implies  the  wronger  seeks   to  be  forgiven." 

XIV. 

Like  a  great  thought  that  full  expression  finds, 
In  happy  buds  mild  spring  found  utterance. 


KARAGWE.  31 

But  never  bud  or  bloom  so  fresh  or  fair 
As  Coralline,  daughter  of  Dalton  Earl. 

It   was  in  spring,  they  say,  that  Stanley  Thane 
Came  from  his  northern  home  and  met  this  May, 
This  Coralline,  fairest  in  Valley  Earl. 

xv. 

High  up,  with  sapphire  over  and  below, 

Blithe  birds  flew  northward,  singing  as  they  flew, 

And  Love  flew  southward,  sighing  all  the  way. 

They  met  him  flying,  heard  him  sighing  so. 

"  Whither  away  ?  "  they  musically  asked, 

"  Whither  away  ?  and  why  should  Love  be  sad  ?  " 

The  voice  o'  the  words  of  Love  is  soft  and  sweet: 

"  Southward  I  go ;   but  I  shall  soon  return, 

And  help  you  in  your  art,  and  with  you  bide. 

You  will  not  flout  me,  scout  me,  make  me  sigh! 

0  wingers,  kindly  singers,  fare  you  well !  " 

XVI. 

Worthy  a  maiden's  love  was  Stanley  Thane. 

Riches  were  his,  and  he  had  deeply  quaffed 

From  the  clear  spring  of  knowledge  practical. 

Along  his  veins  ran  potent,  old-world  blood, 

Cool  English,  quick  Celtic,  strong  Huguenot ; 

All  by  the  climate  blended  and  subdued 

To  that  distinctive  and  peculiar  kind 

Which  is  American.     Dark  eyes  he  had, 

Straight,  deep-black  hair,  firm,  fair  rose-tinted  flesh, 

And  the  full  bloom  of  evanescent  youth. 

High  thoughts  and  purposes,  like  mountain  chains 

Linked  and  white  peaked,  rose  in  his  pleasant  mind, 

That  was  as  clear  and  fresh  as  air  at  morn. 

Hating  oppression  and  intolerance, 


32  KARAGWE. 

Courageous,  generous,  but  firm  of  will, 
Of  the   strong  North  he  was  a  character, 
A  stamp,  a  type  incarnate  in  a  man. 


xvn. 

Seeing  her  fair,  he  boldly  kissed  her  hand  ; 

He  kissed  the  hand  of  southern  Coralline. 

He  saw  that  she  was  stately,  lithe  and  tall, 

And  deemed  her  proud,  but  thought  her  beautiful. 

What  if  the  air  was  fragrant,  honey-sweet, 

With  the  magnificent  magnolia's  breath? 

What  if  the  odorous  white   avenue, 

From  house  to  highway,  with  magnolia  trees 

Graceful  and  tall,  was  hedged  and  garlanded? 

He  heeded  not :    the  dear,  chief  flower  of  all, 

The  one  superb  magnolia  of  a  life, 

Thrilled  at  his  touch,  as  with  enraptured  lips 

He  kissed  the  snowy  petal  of  her  hand. 

He  galloped  with  her  through  the  idle  town, 
He  wandered  with  her  in  the  orange  groves, 
And  watched,  beside  the  falls,  the  busy  brook 
That  seemed  a  maid,  who,  sitting  at  a  loom, 
Wove  misty  lace  to  decorate  the  rocks. 

XVIII. 

Long  on  the  writing  hidden  in  a  nest 
Pondered  the  slave,  and  found  it  was  the  deed ! 
Conscience,  fearless  and  prompt  to  tell  the  truth, 
Upspoke,  and  said  he  had  no  right  to  it. 
Yet  if  he  gave  the  deed  to  Dalton  Earl, 
Unjustly  Richard  Wain  might  claim  it  still. 

He  thought  of  Ruth  as  of  the  loved  who  rest, 
Mourning  for  her  that  she  to  him  was  dead, 


KARAG  WE.  33 

And  once  he  gathered  wild-flowers  for  regret, 

And  placed  them  where  they  would  be  found  by  Ruth, 

As  if  he  someway  laid  them  on  her  grave. 

XIX. 

When  Richard  Wain  knew  he  had  lost  the  deed 

He  feigned  he  won  at  cards  from  Dalton  Earl, 

Rage  and  chagrin  were  ready  at  their  gate, 

Like  pent-up  water,  to  surpass  the  race, 

And  turn  that  mill-wheel  voluble,  his  tongue. 

If  he  mistrusted  Dalton  Earl  the  thief, 

His  threat's  effect,  Ruth's  sale,  disproved  the  thought. 

Lest  he  might  lose  the  power  he  wished  to  keep, 

The  waters  rushed  not,  and  the  wheel  was  dumb 

To  tell  his  secret  that  the  deed  was  lost. 


xx. 

A  skiff  shot  out  from  under-reaching  shore, 
And  Stanley  Thane,  with  stately  Coralline, 
Sailed  down  the  river  through  a  peaceful  vale. 
About  them  hung  the  shadow  of  the  earth  ; 
Beneath  them  flowed  the  deep  and  glossy  gloom 
Reflecting  the  inaccessible  stars. 

Already  there  were  portents  of  dread  war, 
For  Slavery,  a  dragon  fell  and  foul, 
Opposed  the  youthful  knight  of  Liberty. 
But  Coralline,  within  the  dragon's  spell, 
Was  mute  to  what  of  shame  the  shape   had  done, 
And  praised  its  hateful  life  with  heated  words. 
Stanley,  who  would  not  weakly  hold  his  peace 
And  hear  a  wrong  defended,  said,  "  O  South, 
Your  chiefs,  who  claim  the  name  of  democrat, 
Pervert  the  sense  of  that  which  they  profess. 
They  democrats !     They  do  not  understand 


34  KARAG  WE. 

The  baby  letters  of  democracy ; 

For  they  deny  that  all  should  govern  all, 

And  will  to  make  men  slaves  and  ignorant. 

But  God  is  just ;     He  knows  nor  white  nor  black ; 

If  war  must  come,  the  shackles,  cleft  amain 

By  the  uncompromising  sword,  shall  fall, 

And  the  whole  people  of  the  land  be  free." 

Seeming  a  dull  machine  that  worked  the  boat, 

The  dusky  oarsman,  silent  Karagwe, 

Heard  the  winged  words  and  caught  them  in  his  heart. 

But  Coralline,  like  an  idolatrous 

And  cruel  priestess  of  an  ancient  fane, 

Who,  proud  of  altars  and  of  sacrifice, 

Heard  her  base  god  dishonored,  rose  enraged ; 

She  scorned  the   Northern  thought  of  Stanley  Thane, 

She  wished  it  had  not  been  their  fate  to  meet. 

"  If  that  you  mean,"  he  said,  "  then  let  us  part, 

And  let  us  hope  we  shall  not  meet  again. 

Farewell !    for  I  will  see  you  never  more." 

The  boat  was  near  the  shore  ;   he  sprang  to  it, 

And  left  her  standing  darkly  in  the  prow  — 

Her  pride  engaged  against  a  host  of  tears ; 

This  Paris  of  her  high  heart's  Ilios  roused 

To  drive  the  Greeks  back  to  the  salty  sea. 

Oh,  far  apart  as  east  and  west  are  they 
Whom  pride  divides  !     They  wander  aimlessly ; 
They  err ;  their  hope  is  dead ;  their  hearts  are  cold. 
O  pride  !    0  foolish,  shallow !  that  is  stayed 
On  small  and  petty  points,  on  nettles,  thorns  — 
Oh,  leave  us,  and  go  hence,  that  in  thy  room 
May  bloom  the  violet,  humility ! 

XXI. 

A  mighty  angel,  with  triumphant  face, 

The  torch  and  sword  of  vengeance  in  his  hands, 


-- 


KARAGWE.  35 

Swept  overhead  with  trailing,  crimson  robe, 
And  roused  a  people  with  the   cry  of  war  ! 

Wake  !  for  the  night  has  passed,  and  dawn  is  come ! 

Sons  of  the  new  world,  wake !  turn  scythes  to  swords. 

Wake,  busy  town !  and  quiet  village,  wake  ! 

The  shame  that  is  nourished  stings  to  the  death. 

Voices  of  viol  and  flute  are  as  dreams  ; 

But  bugle   and  drum  sound  a  call  to  arms ! 

The  cannon's  pulse,  in  a  prostrate  time, 

Is  the  heart-beat  fresh  of  a  nobler  day. 

Oh,  strike,  tho'  you  die,  if  you  make  men  free  ! 

Wake !  there  is  war  with  the  South  in  the  south. 

There  is  war  begun,  and  who  knows  the  end  ? 

XXII. 

O  false  wife,  South !     Thy  true  husband,  the  North, 

Loveth  thee  yet,  though  thou  wentest  astray. 

In  Truth's  great  court,  where  thy  trial  was  held, 

To  thee  was  granted  no  bill  of  divorce. 

Thy  child,  misshapen,  and  proud  of  its  shame, 

Was  not  the  child  of  thy  husband,  the  North. 

It  has  led  thee  into  the  mire,  and  raised 

To  thy  famished  lips  the  cup  of  despair ; 

It  were  better  that  such  a  child  should  die. 

xxm. 

Like  a  grim  soldier  marching  to  his  death, 
A  year  of  battle  passed  with  measured  step, 
And  took  its  chill  decease  :    then  Richard  Wain 
Prepared  for  his  departure  to  the  war. 
To-morrow  he  would  go,  and  in  the  night 
He  idly  sat  in  his  forbidding  house ; 
Thinking,  he  drowsed ;  his  chin  couched  on  his  breast; 
A  dim  lamp  wrought  at  shadows  on  the  walls. 


36  KARAGWE. 

Slowly  the  sash  was  raised  behind  his  chair. 
Perhaps  he  slept ;   he  did  not  heed  the  sound ; 
But  Karagwe  sprang  in  and  faced  his  foe, 
And  held  a  long  knife  up  and  brandished  it, 
Saying,  "  As  surely  as  you  call  or  move, 
Your  life  will  not  be  worth  a  blade  of  grass ; 
But  if  you  do  not  call,  and  sign  the  words 
That  I  have  written  on  a  paper  here, 
No  harm  will  come,  and  I  shall  go  away." 
He  drew  the  paper  forth ;   the  planter  read : 

"  By  virtue  of  this  writing,  I  disclaim 

Title  or  right  or  any  interest 

In  Dalton  Earl's  plantation  joining  mine." 

"  Why,  this  I   surely  will  not  sign,"  he  said. 

"  You  might  have  asked  me  to  give  up  your  Ruth, 

And  I  should  not  have  minded ;  but  your  game 

Lies  deeper  than  a  check  upon  the  queen." 

"  Sign !  "  cried  the  negro ;   and  at  Ruth's  name 

A  sudden  madness  leaped  along  his  nerves, 

Like  a  blown  flame   among  dry  prairie  grass : 

"  Sign !  for  unless  you  sign  this  writing  now, 

You  shall  not  live  ;  now  promise  me  to  sign !  " 

He  fiercely  caught  the  planter  by  the  throat, 

Starting  his  quailing  eyes :   "  Now  will  you  sign  or  not  ? 

You  have  ten  seconds  more  to  make  your  choice." 

"  Give  me  the  paper  then,  and  I  will  sign." 

The  name  was  written,  and  the  negro  went ; 

But  not  an  hour  had  passed  before   the  hounds 

Of  Richard  Wain  and  Dalton   Earl  were  slipped, 

And  scenting  on  the  track  of    his  escape. 

xxrv. 

The  slave  ran  swiftly  to  the  hollow  tree  ; 
There  left  the  paper  signed  by  Richard  Wain, 


KARAGWE.  37 

Folding  it  in  the  deed ;  then  took  his  book, 
And  up  a  tireless  road  fled  on  and  on, 
Until  he  reached  the  border  of   a  marsh. 

The  night  was  dark,  but  darker  still    the  clouds 
That  loomed  along  the  rim  where  day  had  gone. 
The  wind  blew  cold,  and,  sighing,  hastened  by, 
Escaping,  like  a  slave,  the  hound-like  clouds 
Whose  thunder-barking  sounded  deep  and  far. 

Along  the  dark  the  bay  came  dismally, 

Of  savage  dogs  set  on  the  negro's  track  — 

Swift,  monstrous  blood-hounds  trained  to  fight  with  men. 

He  knew  a  swamp-path  safe  for  hoof  or  foot, 

And  even  in  the  blackness  followed  it, 

Finding  a  covert  hummock,  where  a  hut, 

Built  up  of  logs  by  some  poor  fugitive, 

Held  a  rude  thatch  against  the  sun  and  rain. 

xxv. 

Men  over-estimate  what  they  desire 
Through  ignorance  of  it  :  credulous   Pursuit 
Thinks  his  betrothed,  Possession,  is  divine  ; 
But  finds  she  is  a  mortal  like  himself. 
And  in  the  hut,  to  which  the  slave  was   tracked, 
That  night  was  painted,  with  a  facile  brush, 
On  thin,  unwoven  canvas  of  the  gloom, 
Wild  visions  of  a  freedom  unrestrained. 
For  long  the  slave  had  thought  of   Liberty, 
And  worshiped  her,  as  in  that  elder  time 
A  tyrant's  subjects  worshiped,    praying  her 
That  she  would  not  delay,  but  hasten   forth, 
And  bridge  the  gulf  between  the  rich    and  poor 
By  making  knowledge  paramount  to  wealth, 
Freeing  the  common  from  their   ignorance, 
And  lifting  up  the  worthy   of  the  world. 


38  KARAGWE. 

Oh,  strange,  that  in  our  age,  and  in  a  land 
Where  liberty  was  laid  the   corner-stone, 
A  slave,  perforce,  should  be  obliged  to  dream 
And  dote  on  freedom,  like  the  poor  oppressed 
Who  lived  and  hoped  long  centuries  ago ! 

And  slavery  to  this  slave  was  like  a  fruit, 
A  bitter  and  offensive  fruit  to  taste, 
The  fruit  of  wrong  grafted  on  avarice, 
Foul,  pulp  and  pit,  with  rank  and  poison  sin. 
Yet  tlio'  this  fruit  was  bitter  to  the  core, 
Many  there  were  who  died  for  love  of  it. 

Oh,  many  they  who  listened  through  long  nights 
To  hear  a  footstep  that  will  never  come ! 
There  is  scarce  a  flower  along  the  border  blown, 
From  Lookout  Mountain  to  the  Chesapeake, 
But  has  in  it  the  blood  of  North  and  South. 

XXVI. 

When  sleep  left  Karagwe,  above  the  marsh 

The  flush  and  whisper  of  the  morning  went. 

Then,  when  he  would  have  ventured  from  the  door, 

A  large,  black  blood-hound  rose,  and  licked  his  hand. 

The  dog  was  Dalton  Earl's,  and  did  not  know 

That  men  were  bought  and  sold  for  current  coin ; 

He  only  knew  with  joy  he  saw  his  friend. 

Karagwe  went  back,  and  on  a  paper  wrote : 

"  Your  dog  has  harmed  me  not,  tho'  sent  for  harm. 

I  never  wronged  you ;  I  have  served  you  well. 

I  risked  the  life  of  him  who  wronged  us  both, 

To  do  you  one  great  service  for  the  last. 

You  made  me  slave,  you  sold  my  plighted  wife, 

And  now  you  set  your  blood-hounds  on  my  track, 

Because  I  flee  to  freedom  that  is  mine. 


KARAGWE.  39 

"  Bat  tho'  you  wrong  me,  I  repay   with  good  ; 
For  in  the  nested  hollow  of   a  pine, 
In  the  high  grove,  on  ground  of  Richard   Wain, 
Is  the  lost  deed  that  holds  your  house   and  lands." 
The  paper  fastened  at  the  hound's   strong  neck, 
The  negro  bade  him  go,  and  forth   he  leaped  ; 
And  Dalton  Earl  read  what  the  slave  had   sent, 
And  found  his  deed  safe  hidden  in  the  tree, 
And  that  day  made  an  end  of  all  pursuit. 


Long  wandered  Karagwe  to  find  the  North, 

Fed  from  the  wild  abundance  that  the  sun 

Ripens  on  southern  soil  :  above  him  leaned 

Tall  trees  with  bowers  beneath   their  wrestling   arms, 

Fringed  with  dependent  moss,  and  overrun 

By  thorn-speared  and  leaf-shielded  Vandal  vines  ; 

Below,  the  water,  murky  with  decay, 

Stirred  with  a  sluggish  ripple,   where   had  plunged 

The  wrinkle-throated  alligator,   clad 

In  the  dark  coat  of  his  impervious   mail. 

Like  mermaids  with  white  faces   to  the  sky, 

An  idle  bevy  floating  on  their  backs, 

The  water-lilies  lay,  and  over  them 

Birds  of  gay  song  and  wing  in  sunshine  flashed, 

Or  poised  in  thickets  of  lush   emerald, 

"Where  shrub  and  vine  and  frondage  intertwined 

Inextricably  as  the  affairs   of  men. 

This  freedom  to  excess  in  mindless  things 

Appeared  a  happy  omen  to  the  slave, 

That  henceforth  he  should  have  such  liberty. 

XXV  111. 

But  now  across  his  solitary  path 

A  blue,  wide,   ebbing  river  sought  the  sea. 


40  KARAGWE. 

Two  heavy  logs  he  launched  and  firmly  withed, 

Then,  with  a  pole  for  help  if  he  should  need, 

Cast  off,  and  drifted  slowly  down  the  stream. 

Thus  for  long  days  he  drifted,  eating  not, 

Save  of  the  berries  growing  near  the  shore. 

Once  he  enlarged  the  uncomfortable  raft, 

And  set  a  bushy  sapling  for  a  sail. 

The  wind  and  tide  agreed,  and  hasted   him 

Along  the  sparkling  way,  till  he,  unharmed, 

Passed  by  at  night  a  hushed,  street-lighted  town, 

And  saw  at  morn  the  hot  sun  leave  the  sea. 

A  red  buoy  tossed  upon  the  nearer  waves, 

As  if  it  were  the  ocean's  joyful  heart, 

Or  his  own  heart  upon  a  sea  of  hope  ; 

And  ships  were  in  the  offing,  sailing  on 

Like  the  vague  ships  that  with  our  hopes  and  fears 

Put  from  their  havens  to  return  no  more. 

Ere  night  he  hailed  a  vessel,  gained  the  deck, 
And  found  he  was  with  friends,  and  on  his  way 
To  Freedom,  guided  by  her  fixed  North  Star. 
But  he,  without  a  dread,  had  left  the  land, 
And  sailed  away,  to  have  his  wish  or  die. 

Thus  ever  he  who  seeks  his  heart's  desire 
Sets  forward  on  a  sea  unknown  and  large, 
And  leaves  behind  the    steadfast,  certain  shore. 
The  rooted  trees  exclaim,   "  The  fool  will  go. 
There  is  no  land  beyond,  for  all  is  sea, 
And  it  is  wide  and  deep:   he  must  go  down, 
And  the  wet  turbulence  will  bury  him." 
He  takes  no  heed  ;  the  trees  are  left   behind ; 
He  sails  away,  and  in  his  dream  beholds, 
With  peaceful  harbor,  under  pleasant  sky, 
The  city  of  Delight,  his  heart's  desire. 


KARAGWE.  41 

XXIX. 

Three  years  of  war,  three  years  of   blood  and  tears, 
And  Richard  Wain  in  front  of  battle  fell. 
There,  grim  with  powder,  he  led  on  his  men, 
With  cheer  or  oath,  and  gory,  waving  sword  — 
As  if,  through  him,  the  spirit  of   his  cause, 
Foul  Slavery,  expressed  itself,  and  fought 
With  desperation  for  its  ending  life. 

xxx. 

Forth  in  the  garden  dewy  and  perfumed, 
Walked  Coralline  and  Ruth,  sad  and  alone ; 
For  Ruth  was  owned  again  by  Dalton  Earl. 

Tho'  two  leal  hearts,  when  severed  by  weak  pride, 

Dwell  far  apart,  there  is  a  sting  remains 

That  rankles,  and  the  melancholy  years 

Of  separation  are  more  sad  than  death. 

Or  look  or  smile  to  Coralline    recurred 

Dreaming  of  Stanley  Thane  :  of  him  she  thought 

Regretfully,  with  tender  trust :  for  him 

Her  love  welled  up  like  water  in  a  spring, 

From  which  the  more  she  gave  the  more  was  left, 

And  purer  for  the  gift :  down  from  the  north 

Came  tidings  of  his  daring ;  and  the  war 

And  the  deep  gloom  of  absence  were  as  night, 

And  he  the  lovable,  exalted  star 

Whose  image  was  reflected  in  her  soul 

As  in  a  shadowed  lake. 

"  From  day  to  day 

I  grieve,"  said  Coralline,  "  that  Stanley  Thane 
Left  me  so  rashly,  and  that  he  thinks 
My  hasty  words  were  said  with  earnest  thought. 
Would  that  a  bird  might  fly  to  him  and  sing : 


42  KARAGWE. 

'  She  loves  you,  Stanley  Thane  —  she  loves  you  still.'  " 
Iluth  answered  quickly,  "  You  shall  have  your  wish ; 
For  I  will  go  to  him  who  once  was  here, 
And  say  to  him  the  words  that  you  have  said." 
Then  on  the  bosom  of  the  wronged  quadroon 
The  other  fell  with  sisterly  embrace, 
And  kissed  her  through  her  tears,  and  promised  her 
Her  freedom,  if  she  went  to  Stanley  Thane. 

That  night  one  stole  a  knife,  and  sharpened  it, 
Sipping  the  poison  sweetness  of  revenge. 
Those  she  loved  best  were  now  all  lost  to  her  ; 
Her  child  was  sold  away,  she  knew  not  where. 
She  thought  of  Stanley  Thane,  and  felt  regret 
That  he  should  be  the  victim  she  must  strike ; 
But  wished  that  Coralline  might  look  on  him 
After  this  violent  knife  had  wrought  his  death. 

XXXI. 

Alike  unmindful  of  all  joy  and  woe, 

Insensible  to  both,  the  day-god  rose 

From  the  black  valley  of  unmeasured  space 

To  the  fresh  summits  of  the  waking  world. 

Then  crazed  Ruth  started  forth  from  Valley  Earl. 

For  weary  days  she  journeyed  toward  the  north, 

And  reached  the  camp  she  sought :    cheating  the  guard, 

She  in  the  night  discovered  Stanley's  tent, 

And,  stealing  in,  bent  over  where  he  slept. 

He  dreamed  of  Coralline,  and,  sighing,  said, 

"  Dear  Coralline,  forgive  me.     I  was  rash." 

Then  Ruth  cried  to  the  sleeper,  "  She  forgives  ; 

She  loves  you,  Stanley  Thane  —  she  loves  you  still ! " 

At  this  he  woke,  and  saw  the  woman  there, 

And  saw  the  weapon  held  above  his  breast; 

But  horror  at  the  mockery  of  her  words, 

Mixed  with  delight  to  find  them  not  a  dream, 


KARAGWE.  43 

Bound  voice  and  limb  as  by  a  wizard's  spell. 
Then  a  swift  hand  passed  in  and  seized  the  wrist, 
And  snatched  the  knife ;    and  mild-faced  Karagwe 
Confronted  Ruth,  and  turned  her  rage  to  tears. 

xxxrr. 

But  afterward,  Ruth  sickened  in  the  camp. 
While  she  lay  dying,  Karagwe  stood  near, 
And  holding  her  thin  hand,  he  sadly  said : 
"  Farewell,  farewell !     Forgive  the  wrongs  you  had, 
That  you  may  be  forgiven  in  the  skies. 
I  pray  that  you  will  there  find  happiness, 
That  God  will  give  you  rest  and  joyful  morn 
After  the  toilsome  night  of  these  sad  years." 
Ruth  faintly  said  :  ''  'T  is  sad  to  die,  O  friend  ; 
But  it  is  not  so  hard  when  those  we  love 
Are  near  us,  and  we  see  their  grief,  and  feel 
We  shall  not  be  forgotten  while  they  live. 
I  know  that  Coralline  with  Stanley  Thane 
Will  wed  ere  long ;  that  they  will  dwell  in  peace, 
With  loving  children  round  them,  and  be  glad 
To  be  alive,  and  live  their  days  of  joy. 
But  you  and  I  were  slaves  ;    we  could  not  wed. 
Some  men  are  born  to  laughter  and  delight, 
To  rule  and  always  lightly  have  their  will ; 
But  more  are  born  to  sorrow  and  to  tears, 
To  serve  and  have  for  wages  scorn  and  blame. 
But  blame  and  scorn  and  sorrow  fell  to  Him 
Who  can  forgive  my  dark  intent  of  wrong." 
She  rose,  sitting  upon  the  couch,  reposed 
Her  head  against  the  breast  of  Karagwe, 
And  pointed  toward  the  east's  forerunning  gray  ; 
Then  saying,  with  bright  eyes,  "  See !  morning  comes." 
Then,  "  'T  is    morning !  "  and  "  I   love  you.     Oh,  fare 
well  !  " 
Breathed  out  her  spirit  gently  in  his  arms. 


44  THE  TREE  OF  JULY. 

And  at  Fort  Pillow,  when  the  iron  storm 

Had  gone  against  us,  and  the  rebels  killed 

Five  hundred  men  who  had  laid  down  their  arms, 

Karagwe  was  shot,  and  with  a  prayer 

For  his  whole  country,  he  fell  back  and  died. 

xxxm. 

O  Thou,  to  whom  is  neither  large  nor  small, 
In  whom  we  trust,  and,  trusting,  feel  that  Thou 
Allowest  wrong  that  vaster  good  may  come, 
Accept  the  sacrifice  of  boisterous  war, 
To  be  the  red  atonement  for  our  sin. 
Henceforth  let  not  the  rocky  echoes  roll 
The  beaten  summons  from  our  vales  of  peace. 
Bring  Thou  true  peace,  and  make  our  Union  strong, 
And  make  us  one  in  heart  as  one  in  name, 
And  let  forgiveness  heal  the  cannon's  hurt. 
For  we  have  battled  not  against  the  South, 
We  battled  for  the  South,  to  set  her  free ; 
She  fought  against  herself  in  battling  us. 
Oh,  let  there  be  or  South  or  North  no  more, 
But  a  free  people,  generous  to  share 
Their  precious  liberty  with  all  mankind ! 
1876. 


THE  TREE  OF  JULY. 

WHEN"  vulture  and  falcon  dash  down  on  their  prey, 
And  the  burden  is  great  and  oppresses  the  day ; 
When  the  dragon-fly  darts  like  a  spear  that  is  thrown, 
And  swiftly  the  reaper  sets  blade  to  his  own, 
Escape  to  the  wildwood,  and  come  and  be  free, 
And  dwell  in  the  shade  of  our  wide-spreading  tree ; 
The  tree  like  the  chestnut,  so  strong  and  so  high, 
That  bursts  into  blossom  in  fervid  July. 


THE  DRAWBRIDGE-KEEPER.  45 

The  blossoms  are  spun  with  that  seeming  delay 
That  is  wedded  to  fate,  and  is  prompt  to  a  day. 
The  blossoms  are  golden,  and  cover  the  tree 
With  clustering  promises  tasseled  and  free. 
The  burr's  round  resistance  may  bristle,  in  sooth, 
But  crisp  are  the  triplets  and  sweet  to  the  tooth. 
The  tree  spreads  abroad,  bringing  love  from  the  sky, 
And  is  dressed  in  its  best  for  the  bridegroom,  July. 

O  bride  of  all  brides  in  the  love  of  the  free ! 

And  tree  of  all  trees  as  a  sheltering  tree, 

Thy  fibers  are  knit  like  the  thews  of  wide  wings ; 

Thy  talon-like  root  to  the  ribbed  earth  clings  ; 

In  the  journey  of  man  thou  art  rest  by  the  way ; 

To   thy  shade    bring   the  world    from   the    heat  of   the 

day! 

O  liberty  tree  !    thou  shalt  spread  as  the  sky, 
And  bloom  in  all  lands  in  some  happy  July ! 


THE   DRAWBRIDGE-KEEPER. 

DBECKER,  a  drawbridge-keeper,  opened  wide 
The  dangerous  gate  to  let  the  vessel  through ; 
His  little  son  was  standing  by  his  side, 
Above  Passaic  River  deep  and  blue, 
While  in  the  distance,  like  a  moan  of  pain, 
Was  heard  the  whistle  of  the  coming  train. 

At  once  brave  Drecker  worked  to  swing  it  back, 
The  gate-like  bridge  that  seems  a  gate  of  death ; 
Nearer  and  nearer,  on  the  slender  track, 
Came  the  swift  engine,  puffing  its  white  breath. 
Then,  with  a  shriek,  the  loving  father  saw 
His  darling  boy  fall  headlong  from  the  draw ! 


46  THE  DRA  WBRWGE-KEEPER. 

Either  at  once  down  in  the  stream  to  spring 
And  save  his  son,  and  let  the  living  freight 
Rush  on  to  death,  or  to  his  work  to  cling, 
And  leave  his  boy  unhelped  to  meet  his  fate  — 
Which  should  he  do  ?     Were  you  as  he  was  tried, 
Would  not  your  love  outweigh  all  else  beside  ? 

And  yet  the  child  to  him  was  full  as  dear 

As  yours  may  be  to  you  —  the  light  of  eyes, 

A  presence  like  a  brighter  atmosphere, 

The  household  star  that  shone  in  love's  mild  skies  — 

Yet,  side  by  side  with  duty  stern  and  grim, 

Even  his  child  became  as  naught  to  him. 

For  Drecker,  being  great  of  soul  and  true, 
Held  to  his  work,  and  did  not  aid  his  boy, 
Who,  in  the  deep,  dark  water,  sank  from  view. 
Then  from  the  father's  life  went  forth  all  joy ; 
But,  as  he  fell  back  pallid  with  his  pain, 
Across  the  bridge  in  safety  shot  the  train. 

And  yet  the  man  was  poor,  and  in  his  breast 
Flowed  no  ancestral  blood  of  king  or  lord; 
True  greatness  needs  no  title  and  no  crest 
To  win  from  men  just  honor  and  reward ; 
Nobility  is  not  of  rank,  but  mind, 
And  is  inborn  and  common   in  our  kind. 

He  is  most  noble  whose   humanity 
Is  least  corrupted :  to  be   just  and  good 
The  birthright  of  the  lowest  born  may  be. 
Say  what  we  can,  we  are  one   brotherhood, 
And,  rich  or  poor,  or  famous  or  unknown, 
True  hearts  are  noble,  and  true  hearts  alone. 


THE  EMIR'S   CHARITY.  47 


THE  EMIR'S  CHARITY. 

IN  Samarcand,  the  nether   Morning  Star, 

There  lived  a  vizier,  treasurer  of  the  realm, 

Who  did  not  wed  until  the  treasurer,  Time, 

Had  counted  down  to  him  his  fortieth  year. 

His  loving  bride  was  younger  by  a  score 

Of  such  good  coin,  and  beautiful   as  dawn. 

Mismatched  the  twain,  for  she  was  generous, 

And  sent  no  beggar  empty  from  the  house  ; 

Yet  gave  her  own,  nor  touched  her  husband's  gold. 

But  he,  the  treasurer,  was   miserly, 

And  tightened  up  the  purse-string   as   he  said, 

"  I  too  must  beg  unless  you  cease  to  give." 

The  emir  in  disguise  once  went  that  way, 
And,  hearing  of  the  kindness  of  the  wife, 
Had  will  to  test  it :  knocking  at  the  door, 
"No  wife  appeared  ;  but  in  her  stead,  in  wrath, 
The  vizier,  cursing  the  rag-clad,  crust-fed  churl 
Who  dared  to  seek  for  dole  and  break  his  peace  ; 
Then  stroked  his  beard,  and  swore  by  Tamerlane, 
By  the  silk  cerements  and  the  sacred  tomb, 
That  Charity  herself  should    cease  to  be. 

"  Hold  !  "  quoth  the  beggar  ;  "  say  not  so  of  her. 
I  pray  rather  that  on  the  common  street, 
Yea,  on  the  crowded  corners  of  the  street, 
She  yet  will  stand,  this  virgin,  Charity, 
And,  hearing  her  true  words,  the  people  there 
Will  all  espouse  her  cause,  and  make  the  world 
Mount  up  and  spurn  the  level  of   to-day. 
Despise  no  man  who  asks  alms  at  thy  door ; 
A  precious  diamond  may  be  meanly  set. 
It  does  not  soil  the  angels'  holy  wings 


48  THE  BEDOUIN'S  REBUKE. 

To  hover  round  the  poor.     I  doff   disguise! 
Behold,  I  am  the  emir !  yet,  to  prove 
I  am  not  all  devoid  of  charity, 
Still  keep  the  boon  of  office  that  I  gave." 

Then  to  the  threshold  came  the  generous  spouse, 
And  saw  her  husband  kneeling  on  the  step, 
And  knew  the  emir  by  his   thoughtful    eyes. 
She  smiled  on  him,  and  kissed  his  gentle  hand. 
From  that  day  forth,  the  alms-folk  testify, 
The  purse-string  was  not  tightened  round  the  gold ; 
But  ever  more  the  wife,  with  cheering  smiles, 
Doled  bountifully  to  the  grateful   poor, 
Until,  at  last,  when  at  the  door  of  heaven 
She  knocked,  herself  a  beggar,  Allah  smiled 
And  gave  her  alms  of  everlasting  peace. 


THE  BEDOUIN'S  REBUKE. 

NEBAR,  a  Bedouin  of  noble  heart, 
That  from  good  men  received  of  praise  the  fee, 
Owned  a  brave  horse,  with  which  he  would  not  part, 
Because  from  death  he  once  had  run  him  free. 
The  man  and  beast  were  friends,  and   it  is  vice 
To  sell  our  friend  or  friendship  for  a  price. 

The  horse  was  black  and  strong,  his  step  was  proud, 
His  neck  was  arched,  his  ears  alert  for  sound, 
His  speed  the  tempest's,  and  his  mane  a  cloud ; 
His  hoofs  woke  thunder  from  the  desert  ground ; 
His  eyes  flashed  lightning  from  their  inmost  core : 
Victor  of  Distance  was  the  name  he  bore. 

Daher,  a  Bedouin  of  another  tribe, 

Had  often  wished  to  buy  this  famous  beast ; 


THE  BEDOUIN'S  REBUKE.  49 

And  as  he  smoked,  and  heard  his  friends  describe 
Its  comely  parts  and  powers,  the  wish  increased ; 
But  Nebar  said  the  horse  should  not  be  sold, 
Tho'  offered  wealth  in  camels  and   in  gold. 

Then  Daher  put  on  rags,  and  stained  his  face, 
And  went  to  wait  for  Nebar,  seeming  lame. 
Him  soon  he  saw  approach  at  daring  pace 
Upon  the  envied  horse,  and  as  he  came 
He  cried  to  him:  "For  three  days  on  this  spot 
Have  I  lain  starving  —  pity  me   my  lot." 

And,  seeing  Nebar  stop,  said  on,  "I  die  — 
My  strength  is  gone !  "     Down  Nebar  sprang, 
And  raised  him  gently  with  a  pitying  sigh, 
And  set  him  on  his  horse  :  a  laugh  outrang, 
And  Daher  shouted  as  he  plunged  his  spurs, 
"  Fair  price  refused,  one  sells  at  last  for  burrs." 

"  Stay  !    stay  !  "   cried  Nebar  ;    Daher  paused  to  hear : 
"  Since  God  has  willed  that  you  my  beast  should  take, 
I  wish  you  joy;   but  tell  no  man,  for  fear 
Another  who  was  really  starved  might  make 
Appeal  in  vain ;   for  some,  remembering  me, 
Would  fail  to  do  an  act  of  charity." 

Sharper  than  steel  to  Daher  seemed  remorse ! 
He  quickly  turned,  and,  springing  to  the  ground, 
With  head  bowed  low  brought  Nebar  back  his  horse ; 
Then,  falling  on  his  peaceful  breast,  he  wound 
His  arms  about  his  neck  to  make  amends, 
And  ever  afterward  the  two  were  friends. 


50  THE  ROMAN  SENTINEL. 


THE   ROMAN   SENTINEL. 

DEATH,  or  dishonor,  which  is  best  to  taste  ?  — 

A  Roman  sentinel  in  Pompeii, 

When  God's  hot  anger  laid  that  city  waste, 

Answered  the  question,  and  resolved  to  die. 

His  duty  was  upon  his  post  to  bide 

Till  the  relief  came,  let  what  might  betide. 

He  stood  forgotten  by  the  fleeing  guard, 

Choosing  that  part  which  is  the  bitterest  still  — 

His  face  with  its  fixed  purpose  cold  and  hard, 

Cut  in  the  resolute  granite  of  his  will. 

"  Better,"  he  said,  "  to  die  than  live  in  shame ; 

Death  wreathes  fresh  flowers  round  a  brave  man's  name.' 

Life  is  the  wave's  deep  whisper  on  the  shore 
Of  a  great  sea  beyond :  the  soldier  saw 
That  day  the  light  in  broad  sails  hoisted  o'er 
The  drifting  boat  of  dawn ;  nor  dreamed  the  flaw, 
The  puff  called  death,  would  blow  him  with  them  by, 
Out  to  the  boundless  sea  beyond  the  sky. 

He  watched  the  quaking  mountain's  fire-gashed  cheeks, 
And  saw  come  up  the  sand's  entombing  shower; 
The  storm  darts  out  its  red  tongue  when  it  speaks, 
And  fierce  Vesuvius,  in  that  wild  hour, 
Put  forth  its  tongue  of  flame,  and  spoke  the  word 
Of  hatred  to  the  city  from  the  Lord. 

The  gloom  of  seventeen  centuries  skulked  away, 
And  standing  in  a  marble  niche  was  found 
A  skeleton  in  armor  all  decay ; 
The  soulless  skull  was  by  a  helmet  crowned, 
Cleaving  thereto  with  mingled  rust  and  sand, 
And  a  long  spear  was  in  the  crumbling  hand. 


THE  FRENCH  MARSHAL.  51 

In  Pompeii  are  beasts  of  stone  with  wings, 
Paved  streets  with  pillared  temples  on  each  side, 
Baths,  houses,  paintings,  monuments  of  kings  ; 
But  the  arched  gate  whereat  the  sentry  died, 
The  rusted  spear,  and  helmet  with  no  crest, 
Are  better  far  to  see  than  all  the  rest. 

O  heart,  whatever  lot  to  thee  God  gives, 

Be  strong,  and  swerve  not  from  a  blameless  way ; 

Dishonor  hurts  the  soul  that  ever  lives, 

Death  hurts  the  body  that  is  kin  with  clay. 

Though  Duty's  face  is  stern,  her  path  is  best: 

They  sweetly  sleep  who  die  upon  her  breast. 


THE  FRENCH  MARSHAL. 

MACMAHOST  up  the  street  of  Paris  came, 

In  triumph  from  Magenta ;  every  one 

Had  heard  and  praised  the  fearless  marshal's  name, 

And  gloried  in  the  deeds  that  he  had  done. 

Crowds  packed  the  walks,  and  at  each  pane  of  glass 

A  face  was  set  to  see  the  hero  pass. 

Grand  music  lifted  in  the  morning  air 
Its  eloquent  voice ;    loud-mouthed  bells  were  rung ; 
Guns  boomed  till  echoes  welcomed  everywhere ; 
On  buildings  and  in  streets  the  French  flag  hung, 
And,  of  a  breeze,  like  fortune,  made  the  toy, 
Thrilled  every  heart  with  patriotic  joy. 

But  while  the  marshal  up  the  street  made  way, 
There  came  a  little  girl  clothed  all  in  white, 
Bringing  in  happy  hands  a  large  bouquet ; 
Her  flower-sweet  face  seemed  fragrant  with  delight. 
Well  pleased,  the  soldier,  dark  and  fierce  at  need, 
Raised  up  the  child  before  him  on  his  steed. 


52  THE  ARTIST'S  PRAYER. 

The  pearly  necklace  of  her  loving  arms 
She  hound  on  him,  and  laid  her  spring-like  head 
Against  the  autumn  of  his  cheek,  with  charms 
Of  smile  and  mien  ;    while  to  his  shoulder  fled 
Her  gold,  loose  hair  with  flowers  like  jewels  set, 
And  made  thereon  a  wondrous  epaulet. 

He  seemed  more  like  an  angel  than  a  man, 
As,  father-like,  he  paid  hack  each  caress ; 
Better  than  all  his  deeds  in  war's  red  van 
Appeared  this  simple  act  of  tenderness. 
The  people  cried  "  Huzza !  "  and  did  not  pause 
Until  the  town  seemed  shaken  with  applause. 


THE  ARTIST'S  PRAYER. 

WASHINGTON  ALLSTON,  in  a  foreign  land, 

Went  to  his  studio,  and  knelt  to  pray : 

Starving  and  weak,  he  bowed,  hand  clasped  to  hand, 

With  no  more  strength  to  keep  the  wolf  at  bay. 

Conscience,    whose    still,    small    voice    grows   loud    and 

clear, 
Had  risen  in  his  heart  now  sad  and  drear. 

Within  the  vast  cathedral  of  the  night, 

The  stars,  the  altar-lamps,  their  thanks  outshine ; 

Yet  he,  the  artist,  from  whose  soul  shone  bright 

The  nobler  fire  of  genius,  God's  divine 

And  greatest  gift  to  man,  had  never  cast 

One  ray  of  gratitude  for  mercies  past. 

"I  have  been  most  ungrateful,  Lord,"  he  said. 
"  Bound  up  in  self,  I  have  forgotten  Thee ; 
Yet  now,  I  pray,  vouchsafe  me  this  day's  bread, 
And  I  will  pay  of  my  poor  thanks  the  fee, 


THE  SINGER'S  ALMS.  63 

As  I  now  pay  for  favors  heretofore "  — 

The  irreverent  knocker  clanked  upon  the  door. 

Marquis  of  Stafford  entered.     "Please  to  say 
Who  bought,"  he  said,  "your 'Angel  Uriel.'"  — 
"  It  is  not  sold."  —  "  Not  sold !     Then  let  me  pay 
The  price  you  ask  for  it."     So  it  befell 
That  friendship  followed,  and  the  artist  came 
To  better  days,  and  had  the  use  of  fame. 


THE  SINGER'S  ALMS. 

IN  Lyons,  in  the  mart  of  that  French  town, 

Years  since,  a  woman,  leading  a  fair  child, 

Craved  a  small  alms  of  one  who,  walking  down 

The  thoroughfare,  caught  the  child's  glance,  and  smiled 

To  see,  behind  its  eyes,  a  noble  soul. 

He  paused,  but  found  he  had  no  coin  to  dole. 

His  guardian  angel  warned  him  not  to  lose 
This  chance  of  pearl  to  do  another  good ; 
So  as  he  waited,  sorry  to  refuse 
The  asked-for  penny,  there  aside  he  stood, 
And  with  his  hat  held  as  by  limb  the  nest 
He  covered  his  kind  face,  and  sang  his  best. 

The  sky  was  blue  above,  and  all  the  lane 

Of  commerce  where  the  singer  stood  was  filled, 

And  many  paused,  and,  listening,  paused  again, 

To  hear  the  voice  that  through  and  through  them  thrilled. 

I  think  the  guardian  angel  helped  along 

That  cry  for  pity  woven  in  a  song. 

The  singer  stood  between  the  beggars  there, 
Before  a  church,  and,   overhead,  the  spire, 


54  THE  KING'S  SACRIFICE. 

A  slim,  perpetual  finger  in  the  air 

Held  toward  heaven,  land  of  the  heart's  desire, 

As  if  an  angel,  pointing  up,  had  said, 

"  Yonder  a  crown  awaits  this  singer's  head." 

The  hat  of  its  stamped  brood  was  emptied  soon 
Into  the  woman's  lap,  who  drenched  with   tears 
Her  kiss  upon  the  hand  of  help :    't  was  noon, 
And  noon  in  her  glad  heart  drove  forth  her  fears. 
The  singer,  pleased,  passed  on,  and  softly  thought, 
"  Men  will  not  know  by  whom  this  deed  was  wrought-" 

But  when  at  night  he  came  upon  the  stage, 
Cheer  after  cheer  went  up  from  that  wide  throng, 
And  flowers  rained  on  him :   naught  could  assuage 
The  tumult  of  the  welcome,  save  the  song 
That  he  had  sweetly  sung,  with  covered  face, 
For  the  two  beggars  in  the  market-place. 


THE  KING'S  SACRIFICE. 

FOB  seven  years  the  drought  had  parched  the  land, 

Yet  day  by  day  the  sun  blazed  overhead, 

A  fire-eyed  fiend  of  fire  with  flaming  brand. 

The  stretching  worm  was  by  toothed  famine  fed. 

No  green  thing  grew,  for  starved  men  tilled  the  mold 

In  the  dry  beds  where  once  the  rivers  rolled. 

The  fakirs  of  the  swart,  abundant  gods, 
And  magi,  the  consulters  of  the  stars, 
In  contrite  sackcloth,  bearing  serpent-rods, 
Cleft  the  close  air  with  words  like  scimitars : 
"  The  gods  demand  a  human  sacrifice  — 
No  rain  will  fall  until  the  victim  dies." 


THE  CALIPH'S  MAGNANIMITY.  55 

The  wise  king  sat  in  council  on  his  throne, 
And  heard  the  false  priests  going  up  and  down. 
"  A  life  !  "  he  cried.     "  Must  ever  blood  atone  ? 
I  hate  its  clotted  stain  upon  a  crown. 
Yet  if  I  hold  my  peace,  and,  at  their  shrine, 
A  life  be  offered,  all  the  stain  were  mine ! 

"  Lo,  it  is  somewhat  more  to  be  a  king 
Than  gleam  in  robes  of  office,  sit  in  state, 
Be  first  in  pomps,  and  rule  in  everything : 
To  love  the  people  —  that  alone  is  great ! 
So  I,  to  prove  my  love,  and  give  you  rain, 
Proclaim  myself  the  victim  to  be  slain !  " 

The  fancied  wrath  of  idols  to  assuage, 
Forth  for  his  death  they  led  their  upright  king; 
Kind  Time,  the  snail  to  youth,  the  bird  to  age, 
Had  touched  him  lightly  with  its  passing  wing. 
Youthful  in  age  he  looked,  bright-eyed,  smooth-browed, 
As  for  the  sacrifice  he  knelt  and  bowed. 

Then,  while  the  headsman  held  aloft  the  blade, 
A  cloud,  wet-laden,  stole  before  the  sun, 
And  on  the  weapon,  with  a  hand  of  shade, 
Laid  dusky  seizure ;  for  the  fates  had  spun 
A  longer,  royal  thread  :    the  cloud  amain 
Scattered  aslant  its  diamonds  of  rain. 


THE  CALIPH'S  MAGNANIMITY. 

A  TRAVELER  across  the  desert  waste 
Found  on  his  way  a  cool,  palm-shaded  spring, 
And  the  fresh  water  seemed  to  his  pleased  taste, 
In  the  known  world,  the  most  delicious  thing. 
"  Great  is  the  caliph !  "  said  he ;  "I  for  him 
Will  fill  my  leathern  bottle  to  the  brim." 


56  THE  CALIPH'S  MAGNANIMITY. 

He  sank  the  bottle,  forcing  it  to  drink 
Until  the  gurgle  ceased  in  its  lank  throat ; 
And,  as  he  started  onward,  smiled  to  think 
That  he  for  thirst  bore  God's  sole  antidote. 
Days  after,  with  obeisance  low  and  meet, 
He  laid  his  present  at  the  caliph's  feet. 

Forthwith  the  issue  of  the  spring  was  poured 

Into  a  cup,  on  whose  embossed  outside 

Jewels,  like  solid  water,  shaped   a  gourd. 

The  caliph  drank,  and  seemed  well  satisfied, 

Nay,  wisely  pleased,  and  straightway  gave    command 

To  line  with  gold  the  man's  work-hardened  hand. 

The  courtiers,  looking  at  the  round  reward, 
Fancied  that  some  unheard-of  virtue  graced 
The  bottled  burden  borne  for  their  loved  lord, 
And  of  the  liquid  gift  asked  but  to  taste. 
The  caliph  answered  from  his  potent  throne : 
"  Touch  not  the  water ;  it  is  mine   alone !  " 

But  soon  —  after  the  humble  giver  went, 

O'erflowing  with  delight,  which  bathed  his  face  — 

The  caliph  told  his  courtiers  the  intent 

Of  his  denial,  saying,  "It  is  base 

Not  to  accept  a  kindness  when  expressed 

By  no  low  motive  of  self-interest. 

"The  water  was  a  gift  of  love  to  me, 
Which  I  with  golden  gratitude  repaid. 
I  would  not  let  the  honest  giver  see 
That,  on  its  way,  the  crystal  of  the  shade 
Had  changed,  and  was  impure  ;  for  so,  no  less, 
His  love,  thus  scorned,  had  turned  to  bitterness. 

"  I  granted  not  the  warm,  distasteful   draught 
To  asking  lips,  because  of  firm  mistrust, 


RALPH.  57 

Or  kindly  fear,  that,  if  another  quaffed, 
He  would  reveal  his  feeling  of  disgust, 
And  he,  who  meant  a  favor,  would  depart, 
Bearing  a  wounded  and  dejected  heart" 


RALPH. 

OLD,  poor  and  alone  —  past  seventy  years. 

The  fire  is  out ;  there  is  no  wood  to  burn. 

I  sit  and  shiver  in  the  dreary  cold, 

And,  through  the  window  looking  on  the  road, 

Behold  the  pitiless,  descending  snow. 

How  softly  fall  the  tender,  lace-like   flakes! 

I  wonder  oft  whether  they  come  from  God, 

And  whether  He  loves  His  creatures  every  one, 

Or  if  He  harshly  turns  to  those  who  err, 

And,  to  the  cloud-born  whiteness  feathering  down, 

Pointing  no  finger,  says  without  a  tongue, 

If  thou  art  not  as  pure,  pass  on,  pass  on. 

I  had  a  strong,  brave  son  before  the  war. 
He  said,  "  Dear  mother,  I  am  yours  alone. 
You  need  me ;  we  are  poor ;  but  I  can  work 
And  fill  your  days  with  comfort  for  the  past; 
For  I  in  everything  will  do  my  best 
To  please  you,  and  ward  off  the  briers   that  catch 
And  wound  the  passers-by  in  life's  hard  path. 
I  shall  not  take  a  wife  till  you  are  gone, 
And  death  from  both  of  us,  I  trust,  is  far." 

I  loved  him  for  the  sacrifice  he  made ; 
I'  loved  him  for  himself,  he  was    so  true. 
My  love  at  least  had  likeness  to  the  snow. 
But  yet  a  mother's  love  should  not  be  weighed 
Against  a  love  of  country  :  this  I  found ; 


58  RALPH. 

For  my  dear,  only  son,  to  serve  his  land, 
Forsook  me  in  my  weakness  and  old  age. 

Our  nearest  neighbor  lived  a  mile  away. 

Our  road  is  rough,  and  travelers  to  us 

Were  rarer  than  the  eagles  and  shy  deer. 

So,  seldom  seeing  others,  we  became 

The  closer  knit  together,  and  each  day 

Both  found  new  reasons  for  the  purest  love. 

We  prospered,  for  our  rugged  acres  smiled, 

Their  yellow  harvests  dimpling  in   the  breeze. 

Well  stocked  the  farm  was,  and  the  hay-stacks  stood 

Thick  as  the  tents  in  Indian  villages. 

My  Ralph  was  tall,  a  comely  man  to  see. 

Broad-shouldered,  eagle-eyed,  with   fine,  dark  hair, 

Complexion  clear,  with  gladly  conscious  blood 

Painting  his  heart's  thought  on  his  handsome  cheeks, 

He  was  to  me  the  grandest  man  of  men. 

And  Ralph  had  honesty  —  a  higher  kind 

Of  beauty ;  nay,  honesty  is   great ! 

Not  all  great  men  have  fame  out  in  the  world; 

For  many  noble,  self-denying  deeds 

Are  done  in  little  things,  and  being  done 

Are  voiceless,  but  are  like  the  shining  rungs 

That  led,  in  Jacob's  vision,  up  to  God. 

Warm  shone  the  sun  the  day  Ralph  went  away. 
With  him  I  rode  to  town,  and  in  the  crowd 
Stood  dazed  ;  but  clung  about  him  while  I  could, 
And  to  his  bearded  cheeks  pressed  trembling  lips 
Wet  with  the  boding  liquor  of  mine  eyes ; 
For  Sorrow,  drunken  on  the  wine  of   tears, 
Sobbed,  desperate,  and,  sighing,  drank   again. 
But  the  drums  rolled  and  all  the  banners  waved, 
And  still  I  think  I  hear  them  in  my  ears 
And  in  my  heart,  the  rolling,  rolling  drums, 


RALPH.  59 

While  "over  all  I  see  the  banners  wave. 
In  nights  of  storm  I  oft  have  lain  awake, 
And  thought  the  wind  the  rolling  of  the  drums, 
And  thought  the  snow  the  waving  of  the  flags, 
The  silken  banners  which  I  saw  that  day. 

Your  father,  Ralph,  almost  deserted  us. 
He  made  you  do  the  work  upon  the  farm, 
And  hung  about  the  tavern  day  by  day, 
And  in  its  liquid  madness  steeped  his  soul 
Until  he  died.     Then,  till  the  war  broke  out, 
You  worked  for  me  with  patience  and  pure  love, 
And  I  was  proud  and  happy  with  my  son. 
Alas  !  the  frightful  war !     We  might  have  dwelt 
In  peace  and  plenty  on  these  Northern  hills, 
Nor  heard  the  roar  of  battle  all  our  lives. 

There  came  no  word  from  Ralph,  nor  any  help. 
For  many  months  I  waited,  every  day 
A  year,  and  every  hour  a  weary  month. 
Sleep  only  bridged  a  shallow,  murky  stream, 
Wherein  I  saw  inverted  thoughts  and  scenes 
Depending  fringe-like  from  the  shores  of  day, 
As  I  from  waiting  o'er  to  waiting  crossed. 

I  sought  to  have  the  acres  worked  on  shares  ; 

But  men  were  scarce,  and  not  a  scythe  opposed 

The  ripe  and  peaceful  armies  of  the  grass. 

The  man  whom  Ralph  had    hired  to  do  my  work, 

In  scarce  a  month,  himself  went  off  to  war. 

I  sold  the  unused  cattle  one  by  one ; 

The  apples  rotted   on  the  loaded  trees ; 

The  grain,  my  bread,  upon  the  toothless  ground 

Wasted  its  increase  ;    all  the  crops  were  lost ; 

The  leaves  turned  red,  and  naught  was  gathered  in. 

After  long  months  of  waiting  for  some  word, 
The  rumor  of  a  battle  reached  my  ears  — 


60  RALPH. 

"  Ten  thousand  slain  !     A  glorious  victory  !  " 
Little  those  mothers  think  of  victory 
Whose  sons  lie  silent  on  the  ghastly  plain ; 
And  what  cares  now  even  the  splendid  boy 
Whose  life  was  flashed  out  at  the  cannon's  mouth? 
My  nearest  neighbor,  riding  up  this  way, 
Brought  me  a  paper  having  news  of  Ralph  — 
Wounded  and  missing,  printed  next  his  name. 
I  read ;  the  cheerless  room  went  wildly  round, 
And  to  the  floor  I  fell,  and  all  was  night. 

Weary  the  months  that  had  been,  wearier  still 

The  months  that  followed,  with  no  word,  no  word. 

I  think  if  I  had  known  my  darling  dead, 

I  should  have  felt  more  peace  ;   but,  oh !    those  words, 

"  Wounded  and  missing,"  kept  ringing  in  my  brain, 

Like  loud,  wild  bells  of  dolor  and  alarm. 

Only  a  year  ago,  only  a  year, 

Only  a  little  year,  it  does  not  seem  so  long, 

A  letter  came  from  Ralph,-  a  few  brief  lines : 

Freed  from  a  Southern  prison ;  coming  home ! 

Home !     Home  once  more  !     O  Ralph,  my  soldier  son, 

How  glad  I  was !  how  strong  I  felt !  how  sure 

That  God  had  crowned  my  waiting,  heard  my  prayers ! 

A  year  ago,  only  a  little  year, 

Ralph  had  not  come.     How  could  he  wait  so  long? 

When  the  dull  light  of  that  dark  morning  broke 

I  looked  out  on  the  fields  and  saw  it  snow, 

And  wondered  whether  Ralph  would  come  that  day, 

For  something  said  to  me  that  he  would  come. 

The  snow  had  fallen  all  night,  and  it  was  cold, 

Almost  too  bitter  cold  for  snow  to  fall. 

The  fences  and  the  road  were  lost  in  drifts. 

I  saw  the  silent  orchard  cold  and  white, 

With  branches  thrown  up  like  the  stiffened  arms 


RALPH.  61 

Of  dead  men  on  a  battle-field.     Till  noon 
I  kept  my  post,  here  at  the  frosted  pane, 
Watching  for  Ralph;  but  still  he  did  not  come. 
At  last,  urged  by  an  impulse  new  and  strange, 
And  gifted  with  a  strength  not  mine  before, 
I  left  the  house,  and  struggled  through  the  storm 
Down  to  the  road,  and  out  beyond  the  hill, 
But  stumbled  there  on  something  in  the  snow; 
The  chilly  fleece  I  brushed  away,  and  found 
A  soldier  kneeling,  with  his  face  bent  down 
As  if  he  kissed  an  angel's  flowing  robe, 
And  not  the  threadless  raiment  of  the  storm. 
I  turned  the  body  :    it  was  stiff  and  cold ; 
And  in  the  sunken  features  pale  and  thin, 
Disfigured  by  a  scar  across  the  cheek, 
I  saw  my   Ralph,  my  lifeless  darling,  Ralph. 
He  must  have  died  almost  in  sight  of  home. 
If  he  had  only  struggled  to  the  top, 
And  not  sunk  down  behind  the  little  hill, 
I  should  have   seen  him  and  have  helped  him  in. 

Under  the  arms  I  dragged  the  body  back, 

And  chafed  and  warmed  and  bathed  it ;   but  the  heart, 

Whose  beat  had  been  a  steady  martial  tread, 

Moved  not,  and  all  was   still.     No  voice,  no  breath ; 

Only  a  stony  silence  white  and  cold. 

Here  for  two  days  I  sat  and  watched  my  dead. 

I  did  not  eat  nor  sleep,  but  moaned  alone. 

I  did  not  care  to  live  ;  I  prayed  to  die. 

I  bent  above  the  calm,  unanswering   lips, 

And  begged  them  speak,  if  naught  but  one  farewell ; 

And  on  the  face  my  white  hair  lay  like  snow. 

They  found  me  thus,  watching  my  dead  brave  son  — 
My  dead  son,  dead  for  his  proud  bride's   sake. 
His  country  was  his  bride ;   he  loved  her  well. 
But  always  they  endure  great  bitterness 


62  HYMN  FOR  DECORATION  DAY. 

Who  give  themselves  to  high,  unselfish  aims ; 
And  Ralph's  distracted  bride,  in  angry  mood, 
As  if  demanding  only  sacrifice, 
Requited  him  with  hunger,  wounds,  and  death. 

And  now  I  am  alone,  alone.     No  more 

Is  left  a  hope  that  Ralph  will  come  again ; 

Yet  I  may  go  to  him  and  cease  to  mourn, 

For  we  shall  dwell  where  there  will  be  no  tears, 

Nor  cold,  nor  lack   of  food,  nor  any  war ; 

And  the  pure  Christ,  who  suffered  wounds  and  death, 

And  knows  how  precious  is  a  mother's  love, 

Will  cleanse  my  lifted  spirit  white  as  snow. 


HYMN  FOR  DECORATION  DAY. 

WITH  fragrant  flowers  we  decorate  their  graves, 
Who  met  in  battle,   or  in  prison-pen, 

A  fruitful  death;  who  broke  the  chains  of  slaves, 
And  crushed  the  might  of  proud  and  cruel  men. 

They  broke  the  chains  with  tears  of  bondage  wet, 
And  gave  their  brave  young  lives  for  you  and  me ; 

For,  where  the  slave  endures,  it  is  a  threat 
Against  the  precious  freedom  of  the  free. 

The  sun  of  liberty  dispels  the  dew, 

The  tears,  the  night,  and  shines  on  near  and  far ; 
But,  where  it  only  lights  the  selfish  few, 

It  sears  and  blights,  and  sinks  in  clouds  of  war. 

'T  is  fragrant  gratitude  we  scatter  o'er 

The  graves  of  them  that  died  for  you  and  me : 

Their  names,  their  dust,  their  memories,  once  more, 
0  Liberty,  we  consecrate  to  thee ! 


THE  AUSTRIAN  HUSSAR.  63 


THE  AUSTRIAN  HUSSAR. 

WITH  sabers  drawn  and  guidons  dancing  free, 

And  music  dying  in  the  joy  it  made, 

In  gay  Vienna  rode  the  cavalry, 

The  pride  of  Austria,  on  grand  parade. 

Like  a  rose-garden,  with  fair  colors  set, 

Lay  the  wide  plain  whereon  the  host  were  met. 

A  little  child  —  a  lovely,  rosebud  girl  — 
In  white  attire,  and  ribbons  green  as  moss, 
Straying  away,  lost  in  the  crowded  whirl, 
Into  the  open  field  she  thought  to  cross, 
Rushed  out,  when  to  the  bugle's  cheerful  sound 
A  squadron  of  hussars  came  sweeping  round. 

From  the  main  body  of  the  horsemen  these 
Rode  down  to  honor  with  their  steel  salute 
The  empress,  where  she  sat  in  velvet  ease, 
A  diamond  'midst  the  cluster  of  her  suit. 
She  cried  with  horror,  her  delight  undone, 
To  see  the  danger  to  the  pretty  one. 

Directly  on  the  child,  like  angry  flame, 

Had  wheeled  at  headlong  speed  the  brave  and  strong ; 

They  faced  the  dazzling  sun,  and,  as  they  came, 

Carried  a  gust  of  pennant  air  along. 

Swift  as  unbridled  rage,  they  rode  as  tho' 

In  battle  charging  fiercely  on  the  foe. 

The  poor,  bewildered  babe,  in  blind  affright, 
Ran  toward  the  squadron,  and  her  shadow  there, 
Hiding  before  her  from  the  living  light, 
Flat  on  the  grassless  level  dry  and  bare, 
Moved  gauntly,  and  it  took  the  boding  shape 
And  gloom  of  death  from  which  is  no  escape. 


64  THE  AUSTRIAN  HUSSAR. 

Seeing  the  ill,  the  mother  of  the  child 
Stood  spellbound  in  the  depth  of  her  distress. 
Her  gaze  was  set ;    her  panting  bosom  wild 
That  she  to  save  her  babe  was  powerless. 
So,  too,  the  multitude  stood  dazed  and  dumb ; 
Alas !    from  them  no  hand  of  help  could  come. 

As  when,  in  polar  regions  white  and  still, 
The  compass  points  no  longer  to  its  star, 
But  downward  to  the  ocean  dark  and  chill, 
And  frost  and  heavy  silence  only  are  ; 
So  now  hope's  compass  failed,  amid  the  drear 
And  pallid  stillness  of  benumbing  fear. 

But  Succor  waits  on  Fortune's  smile  and  beck. 
In  the  front  rank  the  holder  of  a  rein 
Threw  himself  forward  round  his  horse's  neck, 
And  bending  down,  under  the  streaming  mane, 
Caught  up  the  child  from  frightful  death  below, 
And  set  her  safely  on  his  saddle-bow. 

This  feat  he  did,  and  never  checked  the  speed, 

Nor  changed  the  pace,  nor  to  a  comrade  spoke, 

Nor  lost  his  hold  on  his  submissive  steed, 

Nor  the  alignment  of  the  squadron  broke. 

With  modest  grace,  which  still  endears  and  charms, 

He  gave  the  child  back  to  her  mother's  arms. 

Voices  of  thousands  to  the  welkin  blue 
Cheered  the  good  deed  the  brave  hussar  had  done  ; 
And  other  thousands  cheered  it  when  they  knew ; 
But  she  who  fondly  clasped  the  rescued  one, 
And  the  kind  empress,  in  that  storm  of  cheers, 
Could  only  tell  their  gratitude  with  tears. 

Bright  as  a  star  the  moment,  and  how  blest 
To  the  young  trooper!    when  the  emperor, 


THE  KING  AND  THE  NAIAD.  65 

Graciously  taking  from  his  royal  breast 
One  of  the  badges  that  men  struggle  for, 
Placed  on  the  other's  heart,  so  nobly  bold, 
The  shining  golden  emblem,  more  than  gold. 

That  other,  then,  of  honor  may  have  thought 

How  unexpectedly  it  was  his  meed : 

He  had  not  found  it  in  the  way  he  sought ; 

But  from  an  unpremeditated  deed 

In  which  he  saw  no  merit,  had  no  toil, 

The  flower  had  sprung,  and  from  its  native  soil. 


THE   KING  AND  THE  NAIAD. 

WHEN  the  wrongs  of  peace  grow  mighty, 
They  beget  the  wrong  of  war, 

Whose  wild  night,  with  deeds  immortal, 
Sparkles  brightly,  star  on  star. 

"  O  king,  to  health  restore  us ; 

We  are  besieged  by  thirst. 
There  are  two  foes  before  us ; 

The  unseen  foe  is  worst. 

"Lest  thirst's  sharp  arrows  slaughter, 

Yield  to  the  open  foe, 
And  lead  us  to  the  water, 

Tho'  it  in  thraldom  flow. 

Thus  to  Soils,  King  of  Sparta, 

With  parched  lips  his  soldiers  cried, 

When  Arcadian  besiegers 

Hemmed  them  in  on  every  side. 

In  the  dry  and  stony  stronghold 
Was  no  drop  of  water  found ; 


66  THE  KING  AND  THE  NAIAD. 

But  a  brook,  beyond  the  rampart, 
Lightly  danced  along  the  ground. 

Lofty  Soils  bade  a  soldier 

Wave  a  truce,  and,  with  the  foe, 

Made  a  compact  strong  as  granite, 

With  one  rift  where  hope  might  grow. 

Sparta  will  yield  up  her  conquests, 
She  her  claims  to  them  will  sink, 

If  her  king  and  all  his  army 

From  the  nearest  fountain  drink. 

.To  these  terms  they  made  their  pledges, 
Whom  dry  thirst  gave  fearful  odds, 

And,  to  witness  what  they  signed  to, 
Loudly  called  upon  their  gods. 

In  a  deep,  cool  glen,  appareled 

In  green  boughs,  which  swayed  above, 

To  the  sunlight  rose  the  waters, 
Soft  as  eyes  that  beam  with  love. 

Hither  came  the  adversaries ; 

And  the  Spartans,  as  by  whips, 
Were  ondriven  to  the  kisses 

Of  the  liquid  Naiad  lips. 

As  each  fever-throated  fighter, 
Bending  low  his  waving  crest, 

Stooped  to  quaff  his  land's  dishonor, 
Him  the  troubled  king  addressed : 

"  If  thou  wilt  not  drink,  but  conquer 
This  temptation  of  the  spring, 

I  will  give  to  thee  my  kingdom, 

And  thou  shalt  be  crowned  its  king !  " 


AGNES  HATOT.  67 

Heedless  of  him  were  his  soldiers ; 

Thirst  they  gave  a  higher  rank  ; 
By  the  choking  captain  maddened, 

All,  with  panic  faces,  drank. 

It  appeared  not  heavy  water, 

But  divine  air,  cool  and  thin, 
Which  they,  freed  from  stifling  torture, 

Now  were  deeply  breathing  in. 

Lastly  stooped  thirst-burdened  Soils 

To  the  treason  of  the  spring ; 
But  he  turned,  and  would  not  drink  it, 

Being  absolutely  king. 

Rising,  as  his  face  he  sprinkled, 

With  his  men  he  marched  away, 
Scornful  of  the  daunted  captors 

Who  in  vain  might  say  him  nay. 

He  would  yield  not  up  his  conquests, 

For  himself  and  all  his  men 
Had  not  drank  the  sparkling  pleasure 

That  allured  them  to  the  glen. 


AGNES    HATOT. 

WHEN  might  made  right  in  days  of  chivalry, 
Hatot  and  Ringsdale,  over  claims  to  land, 
Darkened  their  lives  with  stormy  enmity, 
And  for  their  cause  agreed  this  test  to  stand : 
To  fight  steel-clad  till  cither's  blood  made  wet 
The  soil  disputed ;  and  a  time  was  set. 

But  Hatot  sickened  when   the  day  drew  near, 

And  strength  lay  racked  that  once  had  been  his  boast. 


68  AGNES  HATOT. 

Then  Agnes,  his  fair  daughter,  for  the  fear 
That  in  proud  honor  he  would  suffer   most, 
Resolved  to  do  the  battle  in  his  name, 
And  leave  no  foothold  for  the  tread  of  Shame. 

She,  at  the  gray,  first  coming  of  the  day, 

Shook  off  stall  sleep,  and  from   her  window  gazed. 

The  west  was  curtained  with  night's  dark  delay; 

A  cold  and  waning  moon  in  silence  raised 

Its  bent  and  wasted  finger  o'er  the  vale, 

And  seemed  sad  Death  that  beckoned,  wan  and  pale. 

But  Hope  sails  by  the  rugged  coasts  of  Fear ; 
For  while  awakened  birds  sang  round  her  eaves, 
Our  Agnes  armed  herself  with  knightly  gear 
Of  rattling  hauberk  and  of  jointed  greaves ; 
Withal  she  put  on  valor,  that  to  feel 
Does  more  for  victory  than  battle-steel. 

She  had  a  sea  of  hair,  whose  odor  sweet, 

And  golden  softness,  in  a  moonless  tide 

Ran  rippling  toward  the  white  coast  of  her  feet ; 

But  as  beneath  a  cloud  the  sea  may  hide, 

So  in  her  visored,  burnished  helmet,  there, 

Under  the  cloud-like  plume,  was  hid  her  hair. 

Bearing  the  mighty  lance,  sharp-spiked  and  long, 

She  at  the  sill  bestrode  her  restless  steed. 

Her  kneeling  soul  prayed  God  to  make  her  strong, 

And  prayer  is  nearest  path  to  every  need. 

She  clattered  on  the  bridge,  and  on  apace, 

And  met  dread  Ringsdale  at  the  hour  and  place. 

They  clash  in  onslaught ;  steel  to  steel  replies  ; 
The  champed  bit  foams ;  rider  and  ridden  fight. 
Each  feels  the  grim  and  brutal  instinct  rise 
That  in  forefront  of  havoc  takes   delight. 


BALLAD  OF  CONSOLATION.  69 

The  lightning  of  the  lances  flashed  and  ran, 
Until,  at  last,  the  maid  unhorsed  the  man. 

Then,  on  her  steed,  she,  bright-eyed,  flushed,  and  glad, 

Her  helmet  lifted  in  the  sylvan  air ; 

And  from  the  iron  concealment  that  it  had, 

The  noiseless  ocean  of  her  languid  hair 

Broke  in  disheveled  waves:  the  cross  and  heart, 

Jewels  that  latched  her  vest,  she  drew  apart. 

"  Lo,  it  is  Agnes,  even  I ! "  she  said, 

"  Who  with  my  trusty  lance  have  thrust  thee  down ! 

For  hate  of  shame  the  fray  I  hazarded ; 

And  yet,  not  me  the  victory  should   crown, 

But  God,  the  Merciful,  who  helps  the  right, 

And  lent  me  strength  to  conquer  in  the  fight." 


BALLAD  OF  CONSOLATION. 

A  PIOUS,  Catholic  woman, 

To  burdensome  poverty  born, 
For  her  patron  chose  great  Saint  Joseph, 

And  prayed  to  him  even  and  morn. 
And  when  she  was  married  a  twelvemonth, 

A  rose-chain  of  love  linked  with  joy, 
She  named  in  her  patron-saint's  honor 

That  gift  of  sweet  heaven,  her  boy. 

She  dwelt  at  the  rim  of  the  city 

In  a  rude  cabin  —  her  shrine  ; 
And  a  frail  vine  bore,  by  the  doorstep, 

One  morning-glory  divine. 
But  the  day  that  this  trumpeter  angel 

Bloomed  out  in  the  sunlight  wide, 
That  day  the  delight  of  the  woman, 

The  flower  of  her  bosom,  died. 


70  BALLAD   OF  CONSOLATION. 

They  bitterly  mourned  for  their  darling, 

The  laboring-man  and  his  wife ; 
The  cloud  and  the  storm  were  upon  them 

In  that  starless  midnight  of  life. 
Their  loss  seemed  a  dolorous  burden 

Sent  for  a  cross  from  on  high. 
He  went  without  heart  to  his  labor, 

She  turned  to  her  cares  with  a  sigh. 

But  time  is  a  whirlpool  of  changes : 

Or  ever  another  year  fled, 
A  second  man-child  in  the  cabin 

Had  taken  the  place  of  the  dead; 
And  the  trusting,  affectionate  mother, 

With  courage  too  faithful  to  faint, 
Had  the  second  new-comer  christened 

The  name  of  her  worshipful  saint. 

The  baby  grew  daily,  waxed  stronger, 

And  prattled  with  wonder  and   glee. 
The  heart  of  the  mother  was  joyous, 

His  innocent  promise  to  see. 
She  fancied  in  day-dreams  his  future, 

And  found,  in  the  beautiful  years, 
Relief  from  hard  toil  for  his  father, 

And  songs  for  her  burdens  and  tears. 

For  she  saw  her  babe  in  his  manhood, 

Noble  and  rich ;  and  again, 
The  crown  and  chief  star  of  the  city, 

A  far-sighted  leader  of  men. 
But  how  shall  love,  that  goes  blindfold, 

Look  into  the  future  afar, 
Whose  heavy  mists  hasten,  unsundered, 

Before  time's  radiant  car? 

Ripe  Autumn  came  sighing  and  weeping, 
Bearing  her  sickle  and  sheaves, 


BALLAD   OF  CONSOLATION.  71 

And  into  the  laborer's  cabin 

Threw  wildly  an  omen  of  leaves. 
The  pretty  babe  sickened  and  withered, 

Like  leaves  in  the  boreal  breath, 
And  the  gleaming  sickle  of  harvest 

Preceded  the  sickle  of  death. 

The  hopes  of  the  father  and  mother, 

Once  more,  in   their  sorrowing  breasts, 
Lay  ruthlessly  ruined  and  scattered, 

Like  a  rose  that  a  tempest  divests. 
But  the  woman,  trusting,  believing, 

Exalted  her  spirit  in  prayer, 
And  craved  of  the  holy  Saint  Joseph 

To  pity  her  humble  despair. 

Three  fast-flying  years  had  vanished 

In  the  past's  immemorial  sky, 
When  again  in  the  working-man's  cabin 

Rose  an  infant's  pitiful  cry. 
And  the  grateful,  reverent  mother, 

With  faith  that  still  fully  sufficed, 
Named  her  last-born  too  for  Saint  Joseph, 

Who  tended  the  young  child  Christ. 

She  prayed  to  the  saint  to  watch  over 

And  guard  her  own  little  son, 
And  spare  him  to  solace  her  heartache, 

Till  her  troubled  days  should  be  done. 
She  thought  that  her  prayer  had  been  granted, 

For  her  soul-gemmed  jewel  and  prize 
Lived  through  three  seasons,  and,  smiling, 

Looked  up,  out  of  heavenly  eyes. 

Then  Winter  came  freezing  and  blowing, 

His  long  hair  streaming  and  hoar; 
To  enter  the  laborer's  cabin, 

He  tugged  at  window  and  door ; 


72  BALLAD  OF  CONSOLATION. 

But  a  colder  than  he,  and  sadder, 

An  entrance  readily  found, 
And  covered  the  babe's  small  body 

As  the  white  snow  sheeted  the  ground. 

From  the  bed-side  the  mother  rose  wailing, 

And  tore  her  disheveled  hair, 
And  wrung  her  mute  hands  in  expression 

Of  wordless  depths  of  despair. 
It  seemed  an  injustice  of  heaven, 

The  death  that  bereft  her  that  day. 
She  prayed  not ;  but  jeered  at  Saint  Joseph 

For  taking  her  jewels  away. 

The  picture  of  Infant  and  Virgin, 

That  hung  in  the  comfortless  room, 
Disdainfully  mocked,  she  fancied, 

Her  empty-armed,  desolate  doom. 
Her  rosary  rested  uncounted, 

Its  crucifix  broken  in  two, 
And  she  blamed  her  patron-saint  ever 

For  being  so  harsh  and  untrue. 

The  time,  rebellious  and  prayerless, 

Flew  on  into  hesitant  spring ; 
But  no  change  in  the  dark  resentment 

Did  the  mild  transition  bring, 
Till  one  night,  when,  in  vain  derision, 

The  woman  had  scoffed  at  prayer, 
She  found,  in  a  mystical  vision, 

A  balm  for  her  rankling  despair. 

The  landscape  was  vernal  about  her, 
The  soothing  air  fragrant  and  still. 

She  saw,  with  a  feeling  of  horror, 
Three  gallows  set  high  on  a  hill ; 

But  she  heard  glad,  musical  voices, 

And,  turning  to  see  whence  they  came, 


BALLAD  OF  CONSOLATION.  73 

Beheld  four  angels  approaching, 

And  each  of  them  called  her  by  name. 

The  oldest  was  tall  and  majestic, 

With  wings  of  as  radiant  gold 
As  that  in  the  cloud-lands  of  sunset, 

In  splendor  on  splendor  uprolled. 
The  linen  of  purity  clothed  him, 

With  outlines  of  delicate  grace, 
And  a  halo  above  him  enlightened 

The  measureless  calm  of  his  face. 

The  three  other  angels  were  smaller, 

With  silver-like  pinions  that  shone 
As  the  moon,  or  the  pearl  heart  of  Hesper. 

Fresh  roses  these  angels  had  thrown 
At  the  feet  of  the  sorrowful  woman, 

As  they  looked  upon  her  and  smiled ; 
And  she  thought  she  had  seen  their  faces 

In  dreams  or  when  only  a  child. 

The  radiant,  golden-winged  angel 
•  Spoke  to  the  woman  and  said : 
"I  am  your  patron,  Saint  Joseph; 

I  foster  and  care  for  your  dead. 
Tho'  pleased  with  your  faith,  I  was  troubled 

When  your  heart  found  naught  of  relief ; 
For  always  the  angels  of  heaven 

Sympathize  deeply  with  grief. 

"  I  loved  with  deep  joy  the  young  children 

To  whom  you  had  given  my  name ; 
But  I  looked  out  into  their  futures, 

And  saw  that  their  lives  meant  shame. 
See,  yonder,  alone  on  the  hill-top, 

The  three  dread  gallows  appear, 
That  would  have  been  built  for  the  offspring 

You  fondled,  and  prayed  you  might  rear. 


74  GUYOT  OF  MARSEILLES. 

"  Wherefore,  I  at  once  interceded 

To  save  you  dishonor  so  sore, 
And  was  given  to  choose  between  it 

And  the  early  deaths  you  deplore. 
So,  guided  by  tender  compassion, 

I  took  your  young  innocents  three ; 
And  they  are  these  loving  immortals 

Who  came  to  meet  you  with  me." 

The  angels  with  silvery  pinions 

Embraced  their  own  mother  dear ; 
Their  kisses  made  saintly  her  features 

That  lately  were  haggard  and  drear; 
And  they  said,  "  O  sorrowful  mother, 

Be  joyful,  and  weep  not  nor  sigh, 
For  we  are  all  waiting  and  longing 

To  welcome  you  home  in  the  sky." 

The  woman  rose  from  her  vision, 

And  heard  the  merry  birds  sing. 
The  air  was  sweet-scented  and  warmer, 

The  landscape  verdant  with  spring. 
She  knelt  repentant  and  thankful, 

And  from  bitterness  found  a  release ; 
For,  as  the  earth  was  clothed  in  its  verdure, 

Her  spirit  was  mantled  with  peace. 


GUYOT  OF  MARSEILLES. 

THE  life  misunderstood  is  sad  as  tears; 
Its  outer  seeming  courts  the  stab  of  scorn : 
It  sits  apart,  and,  bearing  gibes  and  sneers, 
Feeds  on  the  lonely  hope  to  which  't  is  born. 
It  is  a  murmuring  shell,  whose  rough  outside 
Shows  not  the  beauties  that  within  abide. 


GUYOT  OF  MARSEILLES.  75 

Such  life  was  noble  Guyot's  of  Marseilles. 
By  patient  industry  he  won  his  way, 
And  from  whatever  quarter  streamed  the  gales, 
They  blew  him  favor,  for  he  worked  each  day, 
And  trenched  on  night  for  further  hours  to  use, 
Taxing  inactive  sleep  for  revenues. 

The  silver  cord  was  loosed,  and  he  was  bent 

Graveward ;  but  often  he  himself  denied 

The  wheaten  fuel,  coal  of  nutriment, 

That  keeps  the  hungry  fire  of  life  supplied. 

He  wore  mere  rags  against  the  sharpest  frost, 

And,  from  his  youth  up,  shunned  the  ways  of  cost. 

His  rooms  were  mean,  and  on  the  bare,  board  floor 
He  slept  on  straw,  and  oft  the  freezing  air 
Hissed  through  the  dusty  seams  and  broken  door, 
As  if  to  drive  his  purpose  to  despair ; 
But  purpose,  kin  to  sufferance,  heeds  no  cold, 
And  habits  turn  to  needs  as  men  grow  old. 

The  world  condemns  the  miser :    in  the  street 
The  rich  at  Guyot  cast  an  honest   sneer ; 
Even  the  poor  folk,  whom  he  chanced  to  meet, 
Hooted  and  scoffed  and  after   flung  a  jeer, 
For  scorn  of  him  who  basely  would  withhold 
The  cheapest  comforts  for  the  sake  of  gold. 

They  found  him  lying  lifeless  on  his  straw  ; 
And  thus,  or  with  like  meaning,  ran  his  will : 
"In  early  youth,  in  fair  Marseilles,  I  saw 
The  poor  with  water  were  supplied  but  ill ; 
And  I  trade's  yellow  flower  have  widely  plucked, 
And  here  bequeath,  to  build  an  aqueduct." 

O  creeping  water  of  the  mountain-spring! 
O  dimpled  water  of  the  laughing  brooks! 


76  ONTIORA. 

O  water  of  the  river!   whispering 
To  the  low  bough  that  on  its  likeness  looks  — 
Publish  in  crystal,  through  the  dells  and  dales, 
Of  Guyot,  noble  Guyot  of  Marseilles ! 


ONTIORA. 

Mooxs  on  moons  ago, 

In  the  sleep,  or  night,  of  the  moon, 

When  evil  spirits  have  power, 

The  monster,  Ontiora, 

Came  down  in  the  dreadful  gloom. 

The  monster  came  stalking  abroad, 

On  his  way  to  the  sea  for  a  bath, 

For  a  bath  in  the  salt,  gray  sea. 

In  Ontiora's  breast 

Was  the  eyrie  of  the  winds, 

Eagles  of  measureless  wing, 

Whose  screeching,  furious  swoop 

Startled  the  sleeping  dens. 

His  hair  was  darkness  unbound, 

Thick,  and  not  mooned  nor  starred. 

His  head  was  plumed  with  rays 

Plucked  from  the  sunken  sun. 

To  him  the  forests  of  oak, 

Of  maple,  hemlock,  and  pine, 

Were  as  grass  that  a  bear  treads  down. 

He  trod  them  down  as  he  came, 

As  he  came  from  his  white-peak'd  tent, 

At  whose  door,  ere  he  started  abroad, 

He  drew  a  flintless  arrow 

Across  the  sky's  strip'd  bow, 

And  shot  at  the  evening  star. 


ONTIORA.  11 

He  came  like  a  frowning  cloud, 

That  fills  and  blackens  the  west. 

He  was  wroth  at  the  bright-plumed  sun, 

And  his  pale-faced  wife,  the'  moon, 

With  their  twinkling  children,  the  stars ; 

But  he  hated  the  red-men  all, 

The  Iroquois,  fearless  and  proud, 

The  Mohegans,  stately  and  brave, 

And  trod  them  down  in  despite, 

As  a  storm  treads  down  the  maize. 

He  trod  the  red-men  down, 

Or  drove  them  out  of  the  land 

As  winter  drives   the  birds. 

When  near  the  King  of  Kivers, 

The  river  of  many  moods, 

To  Ontiora  thundered 

Manitou  out  of  a  cloud. 

Between  the  fountains  crystal 

And  the  waters  that  reach  to  the  sky, 

Manitou,  Spirit  of  Good, 

To  the  man-shaped  monster  spoke : 

"  You  shall  not  go  to  the  sea, 

But  be  into  mountains  changed, 

And  wail  in  the  blast,  and  weep 

For  the  red-men  you  have  slain. 

You  shall  lie  on  your  giant  back 

While  the  river  rises  and  falls, 

And  the  tide  of  years  on  years 

Flows  in  from  a  depthless  sea." 

Then  Ontiora  replied : 

"  I  yield  to  the  heavy  doom ; 

Yet  what  am  I  but  a  type 

Of  a  people  who  are  to  come? 

Who  as  with  a  bow  will  shoot 

And  bring  the  stars  to  their  feet, 


78  ONTJORA. 

And  drive  the  red-man  forth 

To  the  Land  of  the  Setting  Sun." 

So  Ontiora  wild, 

By  eternal  silence  touched, 

Fell  backward  in  a  swoon, 

And  was  changed  into  lofty  hills, 

The  Mountains  of  the  Sky. 

This  is  the  pleasant  sense 
Of  Ontiora's  name, 
"The  Mountains  of  the  Sky." 
His  bones  are  rocks  and  crags, 
His  flesh  is  rising  ground, 
His  blood  is  the  sap  of  trees. 

On  his  back  with  one  knee  raised, 

He  lies  with  his  face  to  the  sky, 

A  monstrous  human  shape 

In  the  Catskills  high  and  grand. 

And  from  the  valley  below, 

Where  the  slow  tide  ebbs  and  flows, 

You  can  mark  his  knee  and  breast, 

His  forehead  beetling  and  vast, 

His  nose  and  retreating  chin. 

But  his  eyes,  they  say,  are  lakes, 

Whose  tears  flow  down  in  streams 

That  seam  and  wrinkle  his  cheeks, 

For  the  fate  he  endures,  and  for  shame 

Of  the  evil  he  did,  as  he  stalked 

In  the  vanquished  and  hopeless  moon, 

Moons  on  moons  ago. 


LIBERTY.  79 


LIBERTY. 

WHERE  the  Platte  and  the  Laramie  mingle 

With  waters  as  pure  as  the  dew, 
Wooing  down  from  the  Rocky  Mountains 

Their  dreamy,  perpetual  hlue  ; 
Where  the  wild-rose  sweet  and  the  balsam 

Scent  the  glad,  fresh,  prairie  air, 
And  the  hreeze,  like  an  elk,  comes  leaping 

From  the  sand-hills  changeful  and  bare, 

Stands  a  frontier  fort,  and  behind  it 

The  mountains  peacefully  rise, 
Whence,  over  the  valley,  resistless 

The  whirl  of  the  elements  flies. 
There  the  sudden  storm  rides  madly 

On  an  uncurbed  charger  of  cloud, 
While  it  shoots  long  arrows  of  lightning, 

And  utters  its  war-cry  loud. 

The  Sioux  were  fierce,  cruel,  and  moody, 

And  hated  the  pale-face  much 
For  taking  the  lands  where  they  hunted, 

Which  he  pledged  that  he  never  would  touch. 
So  they  sought  to  unite  all  red-men 

Against  their  habitual  foe, 
And,  for  Indian  manhood  and  honor, 

Strike  one  more  pitiless  blow. 

The  chief  of  the  Sioux  tribes  was  kingly ; 

He  rode  undaunted  and  free ; 
He  was  tall,  broad-shouldered,  fine-featured, 

And  as  straight  as  a  towering  tree. 
In  the  midst  of  the  dusky-red  council 

He  rose  with  his  harrowing  themes, 
And  a  breeze  through  his  utterance  freshened, 

With  voices  of  forests  and  streams. 


80  LIBERTY. 

In  the  war  that  he  fiercely  incited — 

While  its  flying  arrows  increased, 
And  murder  and  fire  on  the  border 

Angered  the  populous  East  — 
Near  the  fort  where  Laramie  water 

Is  wed  to  a  wandering  stream, 
Dwelt  the  Sioux  chief's  beautiful  daughter, 

As  richly  dark  as  a  dream. 

She  was  tall,  and  was  formed  superbly, 

With  a  face  so  true  in  each  line, 
That,  seen  looking  upward  in  profile, 

It  seemed  as  of  marble  divine. 
In  her  eyes  was  a  languorous  splendor, 

The  dawning  of  young  desire ; 
For  those  eyes,  like  the  fawn's,  were  tender, 

Yet  filled  with  a  smoldering  fire. 

On  her  forehead  a  beaded  fillet, 

Bound  the  trailing  night  of  her  hair, 
And  her  shoulders,  perfectly  molded, 

Like  her  tapering  arms,  were  bare. 
The  stars  and  the  flowers  in  bead-work 

Were  copied,  her  beauty  to  serve, 
And  her  negligent  blanket  discovered 

Her  bosom's  voluptuous  curve. 

She  was  mistress  of  two  white  ponies, 

And,  riding  on  either  of  these, 
She  urged  him  to  galloping  swiftness, 

And  her  long  hair  streamed  in  the  breeze. 
Then  seemed  she  that  offspring  of  Valor, 

Liberty,  and  her  employ 
Was  only  to  roam  her  dominion, 

Embodied  with  beauty  and  joy. 

Begot  of  the  sunset  and  freedom, 
And  rich  in  the  Indian's  lore, 


LIBERTY.  81 

She  knew  the  antelope's  hoof-print, 

The  birds,  and  what  plumage  they  wore. 

She  could  throw  the  lariat  deftly, 
And  bring  to  the  earth,  at  a  blow, 

The  prairie-hen  low-flying  over, 
Or  arrow  the  stag  and  the  doe. 

In  her  voice  the  tongue  of  Dakota 

Was  sweeter  than  philomel's  song ; 
She  spoke,  too,  the  words  that  the  Mayflower 

From  beyond  sea  wafted  along. 
She  read  many  books  and  news-letters, 

And  each  was  a  cup  to  her  sight; 
For  she  drank  from  the  waters  of  knowledge 

With  quenchless  thirst  and  delight. 

At  the  fort,  from  the  homes  of  Ohio, 

Were  volunteer  soldiers  that  came 
To  cover  the  venturesome  settlers 

From  the  Indian's  desperate  aim. 
With  the  rest  came  a  young  lieutenant, 

Blue-eyed,  handsome,  and  pale, 
And  the  Sioux  chief's  daughter,  beholding, 

Felt  strong  love  rise  and  prevail. 

It  may  be  that  some  sense  of  pity 

First  turned  to  the  soldier  her  gaze, 
For  she  saw  a  mystery  in  him, 

The  shadow  of   sorrowful  days  ; 
And  wherever  she  went  or  tarried, 

Albeit  he  was  not  near, 
In  evergreen  dells  of  remembrance 

His  image  would  softly  appear. 

She  could  not  escape  from  its  presence ; 

It  dwelt  in  the  heart  of  her  heart, 
Tho'  in  bitterest  moments  of  passion 

She  ruthlessly  bade  it  depart. 


82  LIBERTY. 

But  Love  is  far  mightier,  braver, 
Than  anger,  sorrow,  and  scorn  ; 

He  drives  them  back  huddled  and  cowering 
Aghast  at  his  arrows  of  morn. 

Like  a  mountain-lake  silent,  unrippled, 

That  glasses  the  bountiful  sun, 
And  so  clear  that  the  mid-bottom  pebbles 

Are  countable  one  by  one, 
Was  the  limpid  lake  of  this  spirit, 

Where  life's  great  day-god  shone ; 
Tho'  the  depths  were  yet  clearer  and  deeper 

Than  the  mountain-lake's,  placid  and  lone. 

When  often  the  comely  young  soldier 

Had  seen  the  maiden,   and  knew 
That  daily  she  eagerly  watched  him 

With  fond  eyes  wistful  and  true, 
He  spoke  to  her  kindly,  and  praised  her 

For  her  beauty  so  wild-like  and  rare, 
And  gave  her  a  rose  of  the  prairie 

To  lighten  the  dark  of  her  hair. 

Then  into  his  eyes  far  looking, 

She  fancied  she  saw  the  sky 
Of  an  infinite  sadness  in  them, 

And  answered  him  over  a  sigh. 
She  set  the  glad  rose  in  her  girdle, 

And  lovingly  taking  his  hand, 
They  wandered  along  by  the  river 

That  lisps  to  the  glittering  sand. 

Thenceforth  he  turned  from  the  maiden ; 

He  felt  that  he  could  not  divide 
The  love  of  his  life  for  one  woman, 

Nor  find  in  another  his  bride. 
This  other  he  tortured  with  coldness 

And  the  slight  of  his  downcast  eyes; 


LIBERTY.  83 

Yet  she  followed  him  oft,  at  a  distance, 
Perplexed,  and  with  tearful  surprise. 

On  horseback  they  once  met  at  sunset, 

In  a  wooded  reach  of  the  road, 
And  her  heart,  with  its  torrent  of  feeling, 

In  words  and  in  tears  overflowed : 
"  Oh,  why  do  you  treat  me  so  coldly  ? 

And  why  do  you  spurn  a  true  friend? 
Am  I  not  an    Indian  princess? 

And  what  have  I  done  to  offend  ? " 

"  You  have  not  offended,"   he  answered ; 

"  I  have  read  in  your  eyes,  I  suppose ; 
But  to  pluck  a  red  rose,  and  discard  it, 

Were  basely  unjust  to  the  rose. 
I  would  not  be  false  to  your  kindness  ; 

I  truly  shall  treasure  it  long ; 
Yet  for  us  to  be  often  together 

Would  be  unseemly  and  wrong." 

"  I  know,"  she  replied,  "  that  the  white  man 

Despises  the  dark,  red  race ; 
He  hunts  down  our  tribes,   and  destroys  them : 

No  foot  of  them  stays  in  a  place. 
You  treat  us  as  fanged  wolf,  or  badger, 

Which  on  the  plains   skulkingly  roams. 
Is  it  strange  that  we  follow  the  war-path 

When  driven  away  from  our  homes  ? 

"  We  go  to  the  wall,  being  weakest, 

And  die  in  the  pools  of  our  gore. 
The  path  we  are  treading  is  weary ; 

Our  feet  and  our  spirits  are  sore. 
Mankind  are  all  love-craving  brothers, 

And  why  should  they  fail  to  agree  ? 
Befriend  us,  be  true  to  us,  love  us, 

And  of  us,  oh,  learn  to  be  free ! 


84  LIBERTY. 

"  We  can  teach  even  that ;  for  of  freedom 

The  pale-face  has  volumes  to  learn, 
Still  a  slave  to  the  past's  rude  customs, 

Which  time   and  thought  must  o'erturn. 
Tho'  he  comes  to  the  red-man's  country 

The  gladness  of  freedom  to  find, 
He  brings  his  base  slavery  with  him, 

A  vassal  still,  in  his  mind. 

"  I  know  that  not  father  nor  mother 

Should  separate  loves  that  are  true ; 
Why  then  should  an  alien  race-hatred, 

Which  in  this  land  no  man  should  renew? 
Break  away  from  the  bondage  of  custom; 

Fear  not  to  be  perfectly  free. 
Even  I  am  Liberty,  dearest ! 

Oh,  turn  and  behold  her  in  me ! " 

He  looked  at  the  mountains  majestic 

In  crowns  of  continual  snow ; 
He  saw  the  bright  heaven  of  sunset 

Along  them  refulgently  glow ; 
And  he  answered,  "  O  bronze-dark  critic, 

The  splendor  of  liberty  flies 
Before  us  onward  forever, 

Like  the  west-going  light  of  the  skies. 

"  We  follow  in  fetters  of  custom 

That  we  never  can  disregard ; 
For  rebellion  tightens  them  on  us, 

And  makes  them  more  galling  and  hard. 
But  here  is  your  wigwam,  and  by  it 

Your  mother,  who  loves  you  so  well. 
Forget  me;  turn  from  me  hereafter  — 

Good-night,  and  forever  farewell !  " 

Forget  him  !    Do  deer  of  the  forest 
Forget  the  lick  or  the  spring? 


LIBERTY.  85 

Do  eagles  forget  the  broad  sunshine, 

Or  the  bees  where  the  flower-bells  swing? 

She  could  not  forget  him ;  but,  sighing, 
Said  softly,  sweetly,  "  Adieu  !  " 

And  among  the  trees  and  their  shadows, 
He  went  as  the  sun  from  her  view. 

He  went,  but  his  lingering  image 

Yet  haunted  the  house  of  her  mind ; 
And  the  longing,  like  thirst,  to  be  near  him, 

She  had  no  fetter  to  bind. 
On  her  pine-bough  and  wolf-skin  pallet, 

She  soon  was  with  him  in  dreams, 
Where  the  sound  of  his  voice  was  more  tender 

Than  the  musical  murmur  of  streams. 

As  a  traveler,  lost  on  the  prairie, 

Gains  the  top  of  some  rolling  divide, 
And,  gazing  far  into  the  distance 

Round  the  level  lonely  and  wide, 
Can  find  neither  succor  nor  guidance, 

But  stands  in  the  wildering  maze, 
And  absently  plucks  at  the  sage-brush, 

Treasuring  some  of  its  sprays  : 

So,  lost  on  love's  measureless  prairie, 

The  beautiful  Indian  girl 
Looked  round  on  the  helpless  horizon, 

Her  thoughts  in  a  turbulent  whirl ; 
And  beholding  no  path  nor  assistance, 

Hopeless  and  deeply  depressed, 
She  plucked  at  the  words  of  her  loved  one, 

And  treasured  a  few  in  her  breast. 

But  day  after  day  in  the  wildwood, 

Adorning  her  beauty  with   care, 
She  would  silver  her  wrists  with  her   bracelets, 

And  bead  her  long,  shimmering  hair ; 


86  LIBERTY. 

Then  would  go  to  the  fort,  and  he  willing 
To  seek  her  lone  wigwam  again, 

If  she  only  had  looked  on  her  loved  one 
Riding  along  with  his  men. 

She  would  wait  slow  hours  at  his  door-step 

To  see  him  come  out  and  go  by, 
And  Pity's  sweet  self  had  grown   sadder 

Watching  her  out  of  the  sky. 
Oft  she  followed  the  soldier  meekly 

With  fawn-like,  inquisitive   fear, 
As  if  he  might  even  deny  her 

The  gladness  of  heing  so  near. 

If  the  strong  and  unselfish  goddess, 

That  long  ago  tarried  in  Rome, 
Were  seeking  to  he  incarnate, 

And  to  dwell  in  her  dedicate   home, 
"What  form  would  she  take  ?     Whose  hody 

Would  best  with  her  spirit  agree  ? 
And  where,  in  the  land  of  her  favor, 

Would  her  truest  habitat  be  ? 

She  would  take  the  fresh  form  of  a  maiden 

Imbued  with  the  red  of  her  skies, 
Lithe,  graceful,  faultlessly  molded, 

And  with  dark  and  affectionate  eyes. 
She  would  choose  the  wide  sea  of  the  prairie, 

And  the  mountainous  Western  wild, 
As  the  place  for  her  life  to  abide  in, 

And  be  simple  and  free  as  a  child. 

And  would  she  not  smile  on  the  people 

Pursuing  her  over  the  deep, 
Who  fought  in  her  cause,  and   delighted 

Her  name  in  high  honor  to  keep  ? 
She  surely  would  hold  them  the  dearest 

Of  all  that  the  century  gave, 


LIBERTY.  87 

And  would  choose  from  among  them  a  lover, 
Handsome,  youthful,  and  brave. 

They  told  the  great  chief  of  his  daughter, 

As  he  rode  with  his  warrior  band, 
And  he  grieved  at  the  lowly  behavior 

Of  the  pride  of  the  Western  land. 
He  sent  to  her  friends  and  her  mother 

To  take  the  sweet  maiden  away 
To  a  distant  vale  by  a  river, 

Where  a  camp  of  Sioux  families  lay. 

He  bade  them  neglect  not  to  cheer  her, 

In  hope  they  could  lead  to  depart 
The  profitless  passion  that  ruffled 

The  innocent  rose  of  her  heart. 
She  went  with  them  humbly  and  tearless, 

Her  life,  itself,  beaten  and  cowed ; 
For  there  settled  down  on  her  spirit 

A  somber,  enveloping   cloud. 

She  silently  rode  her  white  palfrey ; 

She  did  not  smile  nor  complain ; 
From  the  cloudy,  waste  country  of  sadness 

They  strove  to  allure  her  in  vain. 
She  touched  not  the  food  that  they  brought  her, 

Who  all  were  tender  and  kind. 
They  reached  the  red  camp  by  the  river, 

But  ever  she  sorrowed  and  pined. 

Of  all  life's  household,  the  humblest 

Is  Love,  the  begetter  of  Care. 
Unworldly,  Love  asks  only  likeness ; 

But,  missing  it,  broods  on  despair. 
As  the  brook  by  the  trail,  in  summer, 

In  the  rainless  glare  of  the  day, 
Runs  slowly  on,  fainter  and  thinner, 

The  maiden  was  wasting  away. 


88  LIBERTY. 

At  dawn,  a  courier,  foam-flecked, 

Reached  the  Sioux  chief's  war-tent  door, 
And  told  him  his  daughter  was  dying, 

And  longed  to  behold  him  once  more. 
Away,  over  prairie  and   mountain, 

Not  pausing  by  night  nor  by  day, 
Sped  the  chief  to  the  camp  by  the  river, 

And  knelt  where  his  loved  child  lay. 

Of  buffalo-robes,  her  wigwam, 

Traced  round  with  a  sylvan  design, 
In  a  wood  at  the  foot  of  a  defile, 

Stood  under  a  pitying  pine. 
A  pine-tassel  carpet  and   antlers 

Embellished  the  softness  within, 
And  gray  was  its  couch  of  rude  wicker 

With  the  prairie  ferocity's  skin. 

The  tawny-haired  coat  of  a  puma 

Before  the  low  pallet  was  spread. 
As  the  sorrowful  chief  knelt  on  it, 

The  blighted  rose  lifted  her  head ; 
And  laying  her  hands  on  his  shoulders, 

To  his  eyes  that  were  bending  above 
Looked  up  with  unchanging  affection, 

And  told  of  her  heart-broken  love. 

"  Dear  father,"  she  said,  "  I  am  going 

Across  the  great  final  divide  — 
Across  the  dark  range  of  death's  mountains 

To  the  parks  where  the  spirits  abide. 
We  shall,  in  that  country,  be  driven 

From  our  home  of  the  forest  no  more, 
But  be  at  rest  with  our  kindred 

Who  have  silently  journeyed  before. 

"  In  the  beautiful  land  of  the  sunset 
I  shall  wait  for  you,  father  dear, 


LIBERTY.  89 

Where  the  birds  sing  of  love  requited, 

All  the  snowless,  celestial  year. 
In  a  little  while  you  will  be  with  me : 

Your  burden  is  grievous  to  bear; 
You  are  growing  old,  and  so  care-worn, 

And  as  white  as  mist  is  your  hair. 

"For  a  pledge  of  you,  changeless  and  sacred, 

Dear  father,  your  stricken  one  yearns : 
Of  all  the  chiefs  you  are  the  greatest, 

And  are  first  when  the  calumet  burns. 
I  pray  you  go  forth  on  the  war-path 

To  cope  with  the  white-men  no  more  ; 
They  are  countless  as  leaves  of  the  woodland, 

Or  as  waves  on  the  voluble  shore. 

"  Oh,  spar.e  our  unfortunate  people, 

And  make  the  war  settle  and  cease  ; 
Take  well-won  rest  from  the  conflict, 

Ere  you  go  to  the  infinite  peace. 
And  I  would  that  there  might  be  hereafter 

No  serpent  of  discord  and  strife 
Between  our  proud  Sioux  and  the  nation 

Of  him  I  love  better  than  life. 

"  When  my  spirit  has  gone,  noble  father, 

Take  this  desolate  body  of  mine, 
Discarded,  heart-broken,  and  wasted, 

The  withered  branch  of  a  vine, 
And  lay  it  to  rest  on  the  hillside 

Where  the  wild-vines  clamber  and  dwell, 
At  the  fort  by  Laramie  River, 

Where  sadly  I  learned  to  love  well. 

"  In  distant,  wonderful  countries 

The  pale-faces  thought  it  was  good 
To  come  to  our  land,  seeking  only 

To  think  and  to  speak  as  they  would. 


90  LIBERTY. 

They  found  a  true  name  for  the  blessing 
They  sought,  and  deem  sacred  and  fair ; 

But  we  have  no  word  of  its  meaning, 
Tho'  ever  we  breathed  it  like  air. 

"The  name  is  Liberty,  father  — 

A  name  that  is  almost  divine. 
Henceforth  call  me  Liberty  only, 

And  make  the  belov'd  name  mine. 
And  when  our  brave  people  in  pity 

Chant  the  death-song  over  my  head, 
Let  them  turn  to  the  east  their  faces, 

And  mourn  for  their  Liberty  dead." 

In  sorrow  too  deep  to  be  spoken, 

The  great  chief  hastened  to  give 
The  wished-for  pledge  to  his  daughter ; 

But  bade  her  take  courage  and  live. 
He  called  her  sweet  Liberty  fondly, 

And  said  that  she  must  not  decease. 
But  in  vain ;  for  at  dawn  of  the  morrow 

Her  lamp  was  extinguished  in  peace. 

Then  straightway  they  killed  her  two  ponies, 

To  bear,  to  the  spirit's  dim  land, 
The  hovering  ghost  of  the  maiden, 

And  they  put  some  beads  in  her  hand. 
Two  days  and  two  nights  they  bewailed  her 

To  the  bluffs  and  the  forest  around, 
And  in  buffalo-robes  her  body 

They  mournfully  corded  and  bound. 

The  braves  to  their  shoulders  lifted 
The  burden  stretched  on  its  bier, 

And  they  went  on  the  fortnight's  journey 
Through  winter  so  ghostly  and  drear. 

Thrice  a  hundred  dusky-red  mourners 
Rode  forth  in  the  funeral  train, 


LIBERTY.  91 

And  at  night,  round  their  camp-fires,  the  death-song 
Was  a  wild,  uncontrollable  strain. 

11  She  is  dead :    the  pale-face  has  slain  her, 

Our  Liberty,  gentle  and  pure. 
He  spurned  her  who  most  should  have  loved  her, 

And  laid  on  us  much  to  endure. 
Like  the  traveler  lost  on  the  prairie 

Whose  limits  he  cannot  descry, 
Hungering,  thirsting,  forsaken, 

She  found  naught  left  but  to  die." 

They  crossed  the  monotonous  prairie, 

And  the  shivering  blizzard  blew 
In  that  wilderness  coyote-haunted, 

And  the  fine  snow  blindingly  flew. 
It  ceased,  and  the  silence  unbroken, 

And  their  freezing,  vaporous  breath, 
Made  it  seem  to  them  there  that  they  traversed 

The  pale,  still  frontier  of  death. 

They  came  to  the  mingling  rivers, 

And  saw,  on  the  opposite  side, 
The  fort,  with  its  striped  flag  waving 

In  starry,  indolent  pride. 
They  sent  a  young  warrior  over, 

To  carry  the  humble  request 
That,  before  the  fort,  on  the  hillside, 

The  chief's  dead  daughter  might  rest. 

With  kindness  the  garrison  met  them, 

As  they,  from  the  winter-clad  bank, 
The  requiem  mournfully  chanting, 

Were  solemnly  riding  in  rank. 
The  soldiers  had  garnished  the  quarters 

With  flags  and  small  arms  and  great ; 
In  the  midst,  on  a  flag-covered  table, 

They  laid  the  hushed  burden  in  state. 


92  LIBERTY. 

Words  of  sympathy,  words  of  welcome, 

The  white  to  the  red  men  said ; 
And  the  chaplain,  with  eloquent  pity, 

Touchingly  spoke  of  the  dead. 
In  the  vanishing  tongue  of  Dakota, 

The  famous  Sioux  chief  replied, 
And  proclaimed  that,  with  his  loved  daughter, 

The  War,  Hate's  daughter,  had  died. 

"  I  have  given,"  he  said,  "  my  promise, 

From  its  cruel  path  to  refrain. 
Were  the  hopelessness  of  resistance 

And  claims  of  policy  vain 
To  make  me  stay  firm  in  my  purpose, 

All  strife  with  your  people  to  cease, 
Then  this  pledge,  that  I  gave  to  my  daughter, 

Would  bind  me  hereafter  to  peace." 

In  her  praise,  flocks  of  winged  words  fluttered; 

And  when,  out  of  sunset,  the  gold 
Down  the  passionless  mountains  was  streaming 

Pacific  abundance  untold, 
The  body  was  borne  by  the  white-men, 

Who  all  in  the  sorrowing  shared, 
To  the  chosen  repose  on  the  hillside, 

Where  stood  a  tall  scaffold  prepared. 

Here  gently  they  loosed  the  brown  death-robes, 

For  a  pitying,  farewell  look ; 
And  the  maiden  seemed  peacefully  sleeping, 

Like  some  winter-stilled,  wildwood  brook. 
Soft  moccasins,  gauntlet-gloves,  clothing, 

Beside  her  were  hastily  thrown, 
That  she  might  not  lack  on  the  journey 

That  they  knew  she  must  travel  alone. 

And  he  whom  she  loved  looked  on  her 
As  she  lay  in  the  rubicund  light ; 


THE  PATRIOTS  COURAGE.  93 

He  stood  by  the  side  of  her  mother, 
Whose  grief  was  as  deepening  night. 

A  mountain-lily  he  nurtured, 

And  other  fair  flowers  of  the  West, 

He  laid,  with  regret  in  their  fragrance, 
On  the  dead  girl's  innocent  breast. 

They  closed  the  fur  coffin,  and  raised  it 

To  the  scaffold  cheerless   and  high, 
With  the  head  to  the  east,  and  wrapped  it 

In  a  pall  of  the  ruddiest  dye. 
Then  the  red-men  took  up  the  wailing 

And  the  wild,  sweet  strain  as  before : 
"Our  Liberty,  slain  by  the  pale-face, 

Shall  smile  on  our  prowess  no  more." 

The  heads  and  the  tails  of  the  ponies, 

Brought  sacredly  hither  along, 
To  this  grave  in  the  air  were  fastened, 

Each  to  one  of  the  four  posts  strong. 
Arid  a  crystalline  gift  of  the  river 

Was  set  before  either  beast's  head, 
That  he  might  not  thirst  on  the  journey 

To  the  shadowy  land  of  the  dead. 


THE  PATRIOT'S  COURAGE. 

WHEX  our  free  land's  great   captain,  Washington, 

Was  colonel  in  Virginia,  ere  the  war 

He  led  for  Independence  had  begun, 

A  passing  cloud  obscured  his  rising  star  : 

His  sometimes  frightful  passions  woke,  and  they, 

Then  unbroke  coursers,  had  their  fiery  way. 


94  THE  PATRIOTS  COURAGE. 

For  while  between  opposing  factions  there 

The  bloodless  battle  by  the  ballot  rolled, 

Into  one's  pride  whom  he  had  found  unfair 

He  plunged  a  speech-wrought  weapon,  keen  and  cold; 

And  the  hurt  voter,  with  a  blow  unmeet, 

Stretched  his  insulter  senseless  at  his  feet. 

Forth  hied  the  dread  news,  waxing  as  it  went, 
Fed  by  the  food  it  gave  to  every  tongue ; 
Uprose,  wild-eyed,  the  wrathful  regiment, 
And  idle  swords  and  flintlocks  were  unhung, 
And  followed  the  struck  drum,  whose  speedy  call 
Was  like  the  beating  of  the  hearts  of  all. 

When  grief  has  rage  soft  pity  turns  to  stone. 

These  loved  their  leader  as  they  loved  their  land; 

Aslant,  like  shining  rain,  their  muskets  shone, 

And  harsh  the  voice  of  vengeance  pealed  command: 

"  All  foully  slain  our  colonel  lies,  struck  down ! 

On,  comrades  !     Give  no  quarter  !     Burn  the  town !  " 

Meanwhile,  the  stricken  was  made  whole  again, 
And,  hurried  by  the  townsfolk,  rode  to  meet 
The  armed,  excited  torrent  of  fierce  men 
Advancing  toward  the  small,  elect'ral  street; 
And  gladly  holden  in  their  wond'ring  sight, 
They  pressed  around  him  with  unfeigned  delight. 

But  vengeance  is  so  inconsiderate, 

Shorn  of  excuse  it  yet  pursues  its  prey ; 

And  the  battalions,  filled  with  gathered  hate, 

Were  willed  to  leave  black  ruin  on  their  way. 

He  charged  them,  lest  the  love  he  bore  should  cease, 

To  bate  their  wrath,  and  turn  again  in  peace. 

So  they  went  back;  and  slowly  he  returned, 
Chastising  his  quick  passions   ruthlessly  ; 


THE  PREACHER'S  DOLE.  95 

For  who,  that  with  a  foolish  rage  has  burned, 
Knows  blame  as  bitter  as  his  own  may  be  ? 
But  when  red  morn  rolled  up  its  splendid  wheel, 
Joy  followed  close  on  Sorrow's  fleeing  heel. 

For  then  betimes,  a  lark-blithe  letter  flew 
Out  of  a  heart  where  kindness  brooded  warm ; 
But  to  the  voter's  short  and  narrow  view 
It  was  the  white-winged  augury  of  storm ; 
It  asked  a  meeting  only,  yet  he   heard 
Of  challenge  and  of  duel  in  the  word. 

For  who  could  know  that  one  would  be  so  bold, 
To  face  and  brave  the  time  ?  —  in  that  it  meant 
That  each  liis  honor  on  his  sword  should  hold? 
The  voter  straightway  to  the    other  went, 
And  Washington,  with  courage  strong  and  grand, 
Held  forth  his  prudent  and  heroic  hand. 

And  in  his  love  of  truth,  sublime  and  glad, 
To  him  who  struck  him  down  he  made  amends : 
u  If  with  the  satisfaction  you   have  had 
You  are  content,  oh,  let  us  then  be  friends ! 
For,  looking  back  on  our  affray  with  shame, 
I  feel  that  I  alone  have  been  to  blame." 


THE   PREACHER'S   DOLE. 

IN  Edinburgh,  'mid  its  busy  whirl, 
Guthrie,  the  preacher,  walked  one  afternoon, 
And  met  a  sun-browned  little  beggar-girl 
With  eyes  as  tearful   as  a  clouded  moon. 
She  sobbed  and  wept  as  if  there  stood  across 
Her  dark  and  friendless  path  a  giant  loss. 


96  THE  PREACHER'S  DOLE. 

Good  Doctor  Guthrie,  pausing  by  her  side, 
Asked  her  to  tell  him  all  her  cause  for  woe. 
"  My  mother  gave  me  sixpence,  sir,"  she  sighed, 
"And  to  the  baker's  yonder  bade  me  go 
And  buy  a  loaf  of  bread  for  us  to  eat ; 
But  I  have  lost  the  money  in   the  street. 

"  Oh,  she  will  beat  me  so  when  I  go  back ! 
What  shall  I  do  ?     I  know  not  what  to  do !  " 
And  cried  as  if  in  torture  on  the   rack. 
In  pity  for  the  child,  the  doctor  drew 
A  sixpence  forth,  and  as  he  gave  it  said, 
"Weep  not,  my  lass,  for  I  will  get  your  bread." 

He  led  her  to  a  place  where  bread  was  sold, 
And  while  he  bought  a  loaf  made  free  to  say, 
"  The  child  was  sent  for  this  ;  but,  I  am  told, 
She  lost  the  sixpence  for  it  on  the  way." 
The  baker  answered,  "  'T  is  a  trade  with  her ; 
For  she  is  always  losing  sixpence,  sir." 

No  indignation  looked  from  Guthrie's  eyes, 

No  word  of  haste  flashed  hot  from  heart  to  tongue. 

He  felt  a  larger,  braver  pity  rise 

That  such  deceit  should  dwell  in  one  so  young ; 

And,  bending  down,  said  to  the  child  that  she 

Was  now  an  object  of  true  charity  — 

Knowing  that  she  a  living  earned  by  sin, 
He  felt  more  pity  for  her  than  before. 
He  sorrowed  at  the  want  the  poor  were  in ; 
But  at  all  wickedness  he  sorrowed  more. 
Weak  charity  had  he  if  he  should  dole 
Bread  for  the  body  and  neglect  the  soul. 

Thence  to  her  home  of  squalor  and  decay 
The  awe-struck  child  and  gentle  Guthrie  went: 


THE  STOWAWAY  BOY.  97 

It  was  a  nest  for  wingless  birds  of  prey  — 
Children  that,  by  an  old  man  taught,  were  sent 
To  raven  on  the  town  :    the  little  girl 
Was  found  a  place  safe  from  the  vile,  gray  churl. 


THE  STOWAWAY  BOY. 

As,  three  days  out,  the  swift  ship  cleft  the  sea, 
There  came  on  deck  a  winsome,  blue-eyed  boy ; 
Not  any  means  to  pay  his  way  had  he, 
Yet  looked  up  to  the  broad,  free  sky  with  joy. 
His  face  was  bright  and  fair,  for  what  is  good 
Shines  out  and  fears  not  to  be  understood. 

But  on  the  boy  a  doubting  eye  was  cast, 

And,  to  the  question  of  the  master's  mate, 

He  said  that  his  step-father,  near  a  mast 

Had  hidden  him,  with  food,  and  bade  him  wait 

In  the  dark  place  until  the  ship  reached  shore, 

Where  a  kind  aunt  would  help  him  from  her  store. 

The  mate  was  slow  to  feel  the  story  true, 
And  thought  the  sailors  fed  the  fareless  -youth, 
And  often  questioned  him  before  the  crew ; 
But  the  boy's  lips  were  steadfast  to  the  truth. 
At  last  the  mate  avowed  the  glaring  lie 
Should  be  confessed,  or  else  the  boy  must  die. 

Thereat  he  bade  a  sailor  fetch  a  rope, 
And  looking  at  his  watch,  with  anger  said, 
"  Boy,  in  ten  minutes  you  will  be  past  hope, 
And,  from  the  yard-arm,  hang  till  you  are  dead, 
Unless  you  speak,  before  the  time  be  spent, 
And  of  the  lie  make  full  acknowledgment." 
7 


98  THE  GALLEY-SLAVE. 

The  boy  looked  up  and  saw  the  speaker's  face, 

And,  urged  by  fear  to  call  the  truth  a  lie, 

Resisted  fear,  and  stood  in  bitter  case, 

For  it  was  hard  for  one  so  young  to  die ; 

But,  braving  death,  the  tender  stowaway 

Knelt  down  and  asked  the  mate  if  he  might  pray. 

Above  its  hell  of  fire  the  tortured  steam 

Shrieked,  hissed,  and  groaned  in  terror  and  in  pain; 

Yet  worked  the  ship's  great  muscles,  shaft  and  beam. 

The  vessel  seemed  a  sea-gull  or  a  crane, 

Beating  the  denser  air  that  floods  the  world, 

And  round  and  round   her  watery  wings  were  whirled. 

The  sky  bent  over  the  contented  sea, 

And,  like  the  upturned  face,  was  pure  and  clear; 

The  ship's  kind  folk  assembled  anxiously, 

The  Lord's  Prayer  from  the  earnest  lips  to  hear. 

The  mate,  in  tears,  by  trouble  sore  oppressed, 

Caught  up  the  boy  and  clasped  him  to  his  breast! 


THE  GALLEY-SLAVE. 

THEEE  is  no  grander,  nobler  life  on  earth 
Than  that  of  meek  and  brave  self-sacrifice. 
Such  life  our  Saviour,  in  His  lowly  birth 
And  holy  work,  made  His  sublime  disguise  — 
Teaching  this  truth,  still  rarely  understood : 
'Tis  sweet  to  suffer  for  another's  good. 

Now,  tho'  at  heart  of  diverse  mold  and  make, 
There  lived  in  France  two  brothers,  like  in  face ; 
One  did  a  petty  theft,  and  by  mistake 
The  other  was  arrested  in  his  place, 


THE   GALLEY-SLAVE.  99 

And  sentenced  soon  to  be  a  galley-slave  — 

Yet  said  no  word  his  prized  good  name  to  save. 

Trusting  remoter  days  would  be  more  blessed, 
He  set  his  will  to  wear  the  verdict  out, 
And  knew  most  men  are  prisoners  at  best, 
Who  some  strong  habit  ever  drag  about 
Like  chain  and  ball ;    and  was  content  that  he 
Rather  the  prisoner  he  was  should  be. 

But  good  resolves  are  of  such  feeble  thread, 

They  may  be  broken  in  temptation's  hands. 

After  long  toil,  the  guiltless  prisoner  said, 

"  Why  should  I  thus,  and  feel  life's  precious  sands 

The  narrow  of  my  glass,  the  present,  run, 

For  a  poor  crime  that  I  have  never  done  ? " 

Such  questions  are  like  cups,  and  hold  reply ; 
For  when  the  chance  swung  wide  the  prisoner  fled, 
And  gained  the  country  road,  and  hasted  by 
Brown,  furrowed  fields  and  skipping  brooklets  fed 
By  shepherd  clouds,  and  felt  beneath  the  trees 
The  soft  hand  of  the  mesmerizing  breeze. 

Then,  all  that  long  day  having  eaten  naught, 
He  at  a  cottage  stopped,  and  of  the  wife 
A  brimming  bowl  of  fragrant  milk  besought. 
She  gave  it  him  ;   but,  as  he  quaffed  the  life, 
Down  her  kind  face  he  saw  a  single  tear 
Pursue  its  wet  and  sorrowful  career. 

Within  the  cot  he  now  beheld  a  man 
And  maiden  also  weeping.     "  Speak,"  said  he, 
"  And  tell  me  of  your  grief ;   for,  if  I  can, 
I  will  disroot  the  sad,  tear-fruited  tree." 
The  cotter  answered,  "  In  default  of  rent, 
We  shall  to-morrow  from  this  roof  be  sent." 


100  THE  CITY  OF  SUCCESS. 

Then  said  the  galley-slave,  "  Whoso  returns 

A  prisoner  escaped  may  feel  the  spur 

To  a  right  action,  and  deserves  and  earns 

Proffered  reward.     I  am  a  prisoner ! 

Bind  these  my  arms,  and  drive  me  on  the  way, 

That  your  reward  the  price  of  home  may  pay." 

Against  his  wish  the  cotter  gave  consent, 
And  at  the  prison-gate  received  his  fee ; 
Tho'  it  was  made  a  cause  for  wonderment, 
Along  the  road  where  labor  paused  to  see, 
That  one  so  weak  and  sickly  dared  attack 
This  bold  and  robust  youth,  and  take  him  back. 

Straightway  the  cotter  to  the  mayor  hied, 
And  told  him  all  the  story,  and  that  lord 
Was  much  affected,  dropping  gold  beside 
The  pursed,  sufficient  silver  of  reward ; 
Then  sought  his  better  in  authority, 
And  gained  the  right  to  set  the  prisoner  free. 


THE  CITY  OF  SUCCESS. 

WHERE  a  river  hastens  down, 
Stands  an  often  wished-for  town, 
In  the  azure  of  the  mountains, 
On  a  broad,  exalted  plain. 
Peaks  of  peace  above  it  rise 
To  the  bland,  auspicious  skies, 
Whose  inverted  horn  of  plenty 

Pours  out  fruits  and  flowers  of  gain. 

Round  the  city  runs  a  wall 
Where  the  watchmen  clearly  call 


THE  CITY  OF  SUCCESS.  101 

The  flying  hours,  that  speed  away 
With  winged,  inconstant  feet; 
And,  throughout  the  gilded  place, 
The  palatial  houses  face 
On  cool-fountained  park  and  garden, 
And  on  pleasure-seeking  street. 

With  sparse  population  stands 
This,  the  pride  of  all  the  lands, 
In  temple-crowned  magnificence, 

The  City  of  Success ; 
For,  tho'  all  men  strive  full  well 
In  its  worldly  halls  to  dwell, 
Few  even  reach  the  roads  to  it 

Through  bitter  strain  and  stress. 

This  bold  city  has  great  gates, 
And  at  each  a  dragon  waits, 
With  huge,  unsated,  open  jaws 

With  sharp  misfortune  fanged. 
High  upon  the  barbacan 
Floats  hope's  banner,  dear  to  man ; 
But  vainly  are  the  throng  without 

From  those  proud  walls  harangued. 

Witless  men  the  gates  avoid, 
And,  in  wily  fraud  employed, 
Mine  under  the  cemented  might 

That  glitters,  seen  afar. 
Having  basely  stolen  through, 
They  the  secret  passage  rue, 
And  strive  to  fill  and  cover  it, 
And  other  folk  debar. 

Such  men  scoff  and  are  ashamed 
When,  around  the  wide  world  famed, 
Some  brave  outsider  scales  the  wall, 
And  calmly  takes  his  place, 


102  THE   CITY  OF  SUCCESS. 

An  exemplar  sweet  to  men, 
And  most  proper  citizen, 
Who  willingly  would  turn  to  meet 
His  clean  past,  face  to  face. 

They,  throughout  the  toilless  year, 
Stand  arraigned  in  courts  of  fear, 
Who,  using  methods  sinister, 

Have  snared  the  swift-winged  gold; 
For,  if  it  be  lost,  they  know 
That  they  straightway  forth  must  go, 
And  never  more,  but   far  away, 
The  day-dream  town  behold. 

Once,  from  here  remote  —  in  truth, 
Years  ago  —  a  handsome  youth, 
Who  plodded  on  his  father's  land 

Behind  the  toilsome  plow, 
Saw,  tho'  dimly  and  afar, 
This  proud  city  like  a  star 
Across  the  mist  that  islanded 

The  mountain's  peaceful  brow. 

Well  he  loved  a  maiden  true, 
That  of  his  glad  passion  knew; 
For,  as  he  went  one  smiling  day 

Home  from  the  furrowed  field, 
With  her  milking-pail  she  came, 
And,  with  heart  and  lips  aflame, 
He  met  her,  told  her  all  his  joy, 
And  to  her  heart  appealed. 

With  upturned,  delighted  eyes, 
And  low,  tender-toned  replies, 
She  answered  him,  and  plighted  troth 

To  make  her  his  alone. 
Sweet  the  voices  of  the  birds 
Mingled  with  the  happy  words, 


THE  CITY  OF  SUCCESS.  103 

And  to  the  pair  the  waiting  fields 
Abroad  with  love  were  sown. 

"  I  must  hasten  forth,"  he  said ; 
"  I  shall  garner  more  than  bread, 
Till  up  a  gracious  path  I  reach 

The  City  of  Success ; 
Then,  my  dearest  one,  with  you, 
In  that  city  old  and  new, 
I  shall  abide,  and  naught  but  death 
Shall  make  our  joy  the  less." 

With  the  dawning  of  the  day 
Fared  he  forward  on  his  way, 
Pursuing  it  undauntedly 

While  year  succeeded  year, 
Till,  among  a  busy  throng, 
He  was  caught  and  borne  along; 
And  one  high  noon  he  saw  the  town, 
For  which  he  longed,  appear. 

When  a  gainful  month  had  passed, 
He  the  city  reached  at  last ; 
But  nearer  than  the  environs 

He  could  not  force  his  way ; 
For  a  selfish,  struggling  crowd, 
Fighting  hard  and   crying  loud, 
At  the  bronze  gates   seldom  lifted, 
As  with  scorn  were  held  at  bay. 

From  among  the  press  and  fret, 
By  a  dragon  close  beset, 
He,  seeking  sylvan  rest,  withdrew, 

One  summer  afternoon, 

And,  reclining  in  the  shade, 

Saw  a  lovely,  jeweled  maid 

In  her  pavilion  on  the  wall 

Await  the  rising  moon. 


104  THE  CITY  OF  SUCCESS. 

Thus  she  sang :  "  O  moon  of  love  ! 
Shine  thou  down,  my  heart  above, 
And  light  the  sea  that  never  yet 

Was  cleft  by  any  keel. 
Quickly,  sailor,  launch  and  float; 
Wind  and  tide  will  aid  thy  boat ; 
And  let  the  young  moon  pilot  thee 
To  all  it  can  reveal." 

As  the  yearning  music  died, 
She  who  warbled  it  espied 
The  baffled,  youthful  comeliness 

Beside  a  lulling  spring. 
To  him  gayly  she  let  fall 
Silken  steps,  outside  the  wall, 
And  beckoned  him  to  mount  by  them 
To  what  the  stars  might  bring. 

To  her  heart  he  clambered  up, 
And  was  asked  to  stay  and  sup 
Beneath  the  fretted,  curving  roof 

Of  blue  inlaid  with  gold ; 
For  on  ebony  was  spread 
Yellow  honey,  milk,  and  bread, 
And  as  he  ate  he  saw  two  streets 
Before  his  feet  unrolled. 

He  beheld  the  roofs   and  domes 
Of  the  envied  people's  homes, 
And,  far  below,  the  valley 

With  the  river  sparkling  through. 
Reaching  fondly  to  the  slues, 
Where  the  river  had  its  rise, 
Stood  the  peaks  of  love,  enfolded 
In  their  gauzy  robes  of  blue. 

Said  the  maiden  to  the  youth, 
"I  beheld  thee,  and  with  ruth, 


THE  CITY  OF  SUCCESS.  105 

Among  the  motley,  eager  throng 
Who  struggle  at  the  gates ; 
So  when  thee  I  saw  to-day 
Where  the  woodland  waters  play, 
For  sending  thee  alone  to  me, 
I  thanked  the  sister  fates. 

"I  desire  that  thou  should'st  know 
What  of  happiness  and  woe 
These  solid  walls  encompass, 

And  to  what  thou  dost  aspire. 
If  the  city  please  thee  well, 
And  thou  still  herein  would'st  dwell, 
My  companion  may  advise  thee, 
If  thou  of  her  inquire." 

As  she  spoke,  there  came  a  maid, 
In  a  nun-like  garb  arrayed, 
With  passive  face,  but  beautiful ; 

Nay,  pensive,  pure,  and  kind. 
She  was  dark,  and  down  her  back 
Streamed  her  tresses  thick  and  black, 
While  amaranth  around  her  gown 
Unfadingly  entwined. 

To  the  comely  youth  she  bowed 
As  the  jeweled  maiden  proud 
Rose  and  said,  "  Sir,  this  is  Sorrow, 

Thy  attendant  in  this  place. 
With  her  through  the  city  go ; 
She  to  thee  will  freely  show 
The  elegance  and  luxury 

That  mask  its  stolid  face." 

With  a  smile  he  bade  good-night 
In  the  moonbeams  vague    and  white, 
Which  into  the  pavilion   strayed 
Like  specters  gaunt  and  thin: 


106  THE  CITY  OF  SUCCESS. 

Then  with  Sorrow  he  went  down 
To  the  streets,  and  through  the  town, 
And  found  the  house  for  which  they  sought 
That  he  might  lodge  therein. 

Heavy  carpets  spread  the  floors, 
Noiseless  were  the  walnut  doors 
Set  with  carven  dryad  panels, 

Or  with  stained  and  flowered  glass ; 
Thick,  embroidered  curtains  swung 
From  the  walls  with  paintings  hung, 
And  a  dial-seated   Clio 

Harked  the  silent  moments  pass. 

In  Success  few  mornings  frown ; 
For  the  youth,  to  view  the  town, 
When  morning  came,  with  Sorrow  went 

Through  statued  park  and  street; 
And  they  joined  a  gilded  throng, 
As  it  coldly  moved  along 
Toward  the  temple  built  to  Fortune, 
Low  to  worship  at  her  feet. 

Up  against  the  blue  immense, 
In  its  bright  magnificence 
Of  pillared  gold  enforested, 

Of  architrave  and  frieze, 

All  of  yellow  gold  and  good, 

On  a  hill  the  temple  stood, 

And  cast  its  splendor  on  the  vale 

And  out  beyond  the  seas. 

That  proud  hill  was  covered  round, 
So  that  none  might  see  the  ground, 
With  marble  steps  of  hueless  white 

That  led  up  to  the  fane. 
Urn  of  plants  and  fountain's  jet 
On  each  rank  of  steps  were  set, 


THE  CITY  OF  SUCCESS.  107 

And  seemed  like  new  spring  breaking  forth 
From  winter's  snowy  reign. 

In  the  temple,  high  in  place 
Stood  Dame  Fortune,  fair  of  face, 
Holding  Plutus,  god  of  riches, 

In  her  fond  and  fickle  arms. 
Horns  of  plenty  at  her  feet 
Emptied  half  their  contents  sweet, 
And  winged  Cupid  stood  before  her, 
Fascinated  by  her  charms. 

Down  the  checkered  floor  of  gold 

Went  her  crafty  priests  and  bold, 

Swinging  incense  through  the  concourse 

Of  disdainful  devotees, 
Some  of  whom  were  racked  with  pains ; 
Few  could  much   enjoy  their  gains ; 
In  plenty  doomed  to  abstinence, 

They  worshiped  on  their  knees. 

Some  with  Sorrow  had  to  sup, 
And  she  gave  to  them  her  cup 
From  which  they  drank  the  bitterness 

With  unavailing  tears ; 
Some  had  kissed  the  lips  of  Joy, 
And  had  found  how  pleasures  cloy, 
And  other  some  for  greed  of  gold 
Made  hard  and  cold  their  years. 

From  a  gallery  was  heard, 
Like  the  carol  of  a  bird 
That,  to  the  heart  of  darkness, 

Tells  the  music  of  its  dream, 
A  surpassing  voice,  so  rare 
That  it  loosed  the  bonds  of  care, 
And  seemed  a  strain  from  heaven 
Borne  along  the  spirit's  stream: 


108  THE  CITY  OF  SUCCESS. 

"Asking  gifts,  to  thee  we  bow, 
Goddess  Fortune  :   great  art  thou 
Of  Oceanus  the  daughter, 

And  protectress  of  the  town. 
Thoughtful  Hellas  thee  adored, 
And  divine  libations  poured, 
Whilst  Rome  to  thee  eight  temples  built 
Lest  haply  thou  might'st  frown. 

"All  men  woo  thee,  some  with  wiles, 
Praying  for  thy  sunny  smiles, 
Chasing  thee  in  town  and  village 

And  across  thy  parent  sea. 
Turn  thy  mediaeval  wheel ; 
Youth  and  age  before  thee  kneel ; 
For  they  who  would  on  roses  rest 
Must  be  beloved  by  thee." 

When  the  singing  ceased,  the  youth, 
Holding  Sorrow's  hand  of  ruth, 
Wandered  forth  of  Fortune's  presence 

To  the   shining  portico. 
Thence  his  glance  around  he  cast 
On  the  city  strong  and  vast, 
That  in  a  stone  monotony 
Of  buildings  lay  below. 

Like  a  belt  about  it  all 
Ran  the  towered  and  gated  wall, 
A  century  of  miles  or  more, 

A  score  of  chariots  wide ; 
While  upon  a  neighboring  hill 
Stood  a  temple  higher  still 
Than  this  one  built  to  Fortune, 

And  a  voice  from  out  it  cried. 

"  On  the  morrow,"  Sorrow  said, 
As  she  down  the  stairway  led, 


THE   CITY  OF  SUCCESS.  109 

"  To  the  other,  higher  temple 
We  shall  betimes  repair. 
Now  the  placid  hour  is  late ; 
See,  my  liveried   servants  wait 
With  my  horses,   which  are  restless ; 
So  let  us  homeward  fare." 

"  Tell  me  of  the  jeweled  maid 
Who  bestowed  the  silken  aid 
With  which  I  entered,"  said  the  youth, 

"  This  moneyed,  ample  town." 
Answered  thus  his  kindly  guide  : 
"Would'st  thou  have  her  for  thy  bride, 
And  dwell  within  this  streeted  wealth 
Till  thy  life's  sun  goes  down  ? 

"  She  hath  great  possessions  here ; 

Yet  her  days  are  sad  and  drear, 

Because  wan  Death,  in  dungeons  dark, 

Hath  shut  her  dearest  kin. 
Of  the  youth  that  come  to  woo, 
None  to  her  seem  good  and  true  ; 
But  thou  wok'st  her  admiration, 

And  her  love  thou  soon  might'st  win." 

All  that  night,  in  dreams  of  gold, 
At  his  tired  feet  lay  unrolled 
Two  streets,  two  open  ways,  that  led 

Along  his  future  far  ; 
But  he  wist  not  which  to  take, 
Tho'  one  led  to  brier  and  brake, 
While   at  the  other's  slender  end 
Shone  bright  a  drooping  star. 

In  the  morning  Sorrow  came, 
And  they  went  to  look  on  Fame 
Where  in  her  temple  she  abode 
Upon  her  sightly  hill. 


110  THE   CITY  OF  SUCCESS. 

Many  paths  secluded  wound 
Slowly  up  the  rising  ground, 
And  here  were  highways  beaten  hard 
By  persevering  will. 

Not  all  these  to  Fame  upreached, 
Yet  in  all  lay  dead  leaves  bleached, 
Tho'  still  the  haze  of  summer 

Veiled  the  languid,  dreamy  air. 
Facing  north,  south,  east,  and  west, 
On  the  high  hill's  level  crest, 
Stood  the  temple  in  the  splendor 
Of  Apollo's  golden  hair. 

Of  Pentelic  marble  pure, 
Which  forever  would  endure, 
The  fane  was  graven  over 

With  the  sounded  names  of  men. 
From  it  rose  an  airy  dome 
Like  the  one  that  broods  on  Rome, 
But  vaster,  and  with  windows  set, 
And  symbols,  sword  and  pen. 
• 

On  the  four  wide  pediments 
Were  informed  the  great  events 
That  change  the  course  of  history, 
And  for  the  truth  make  room. 
On  the  west,  Columbus  stood 
In  majestic  marblehood 
Forever  on  San  Salvador, 

No  more  in  chains  and  gloom. 

On  the  unforgetful  stone, 
Many  names  were  overgrown 
With  ivy  green,  and  lichen  brown, 

Oblivion's  slow  hands ; 
But  the  priests  of  Fame  benign, 
Tearing  off  the  weeds  malign, 


THE  CITY  OF  SUCCESS.  Ill 

Often  made  some  splendid  jewel, 
Thus  discovered,  light  the  lands. 

This  great  fane,  so  carven  on, 
Fairer  than  the  Parthenon, 
Was  tenfold  larger,  and,  untouched 
By  time  or  war,  looked  down. 
At  each  entrance  high  and  wide, 
Obelisks,  on  either  side, 
In  tall,  Syenic  massiveness 

Set  forth  antique  renown. 

Gentle  Sorrow  and  her  charge, 
Entering  this  temple  large, 
Looked  round  the  vast  basilica, 
And  saw  the  vaulted  roof. 
It  was  propped  by  pillars  high, 
Of  gray  gneiss  and  porphyry, 
And  in  the  groins  the  echoes  trooped 
And  mumbled,  far  aloof. 

On  the  niched  and  statued  wall, 
On  the  tiles  and  pillars  all, 
They  saw  the  biographic  lists 

Of  splendid  names  extant ; 
And  the  laurel,  which  without 
In  profusion  grew  about, 
Within  was  plaited  into  praise 

That  Fame  was  pleased  to  grant. 

With  her  trumpet  to  her  lips, 
With  her  girdle  at  her  hips, 
Robed  in  Tyrian-dyed  softness, 

Stood  the  goddess  fair  to  see. 
Oft  her  mighty  voice  she  sent, 
Through  the  lifted  instrument, 
Round  the  world  to  every  people, 
And  to  nations  yet  to  be. 


112  THE  CITY  OF  SUCCESS. 

Just  before  immortal  Fame 
Was  an  altar  with  its  flame, 
And  a  vestal  guardian  angel 

Who  renewed  the  sacred  fire. 
Face  and  form  with  splendor  shone 
As  she  ministered  alone, 
Feeding  full  this  flame  of  genius 
That  it  never  might  expire. 

One  pure  crystal,  man-high  vase 
Was  the  altar,  carved  with  bays, 
And,  in  relief,  with  goat-leg'd  Pan 

That  piped  upon  a  reed. 
There,  too,  Theban  Hercules 
Robbed  the  fair  Hesperides  — 
Took  precious  fruit  and  slew  a  wrong, 
In  one  exalted  deed. 

From  the  altar's  golden  bowl 
Flared  the  flame's  undying  soul, 
And  lighted  up  the  potent  fane 

And  Fame's  benignant  face. 

Other  light  than  this  was  none, 

Save  the  rays  that  faintly  shone 

In  the  lofty  dome's  void  hollow 

In  the  distant  upper  space. 

Entering  through  the  slanted  roof, 
Ran  a  warp  without  the  woof, 
The  wire,  electric  nerves  of  Fame, 
That  sensate  round  the  world. 
On  the  shelves  of  pillared  nooks 
Stood  a  mental  wealth  of  books, 
And  tattered  flags  of  victory 
Above  it  hung  unfurled. 

Of  the  worshipers  who  came, 
That  had  each  achieved  a  name, 


THE   CITY  OF  SUCCESS.  113 

The  youth  beheld  that  some,  not  least, 

Tho'  wise  and  great,  were  poor. 
"Tell  me,  Sorrow,"  murmured  he, 
"  What  injustice  this  may  be  ? 
And  why  success  for  poverty 
Should  fail  to  be  a  cure  ?  " 

"  These,"  said  she,  "  are  they  that  long 
From  the  world  have  suffered  wrong, 
The  authors  and  inventors 

Who  have  little  else  than  fame. 
They  might  boast  their  stores  of  gold, 
Were  it  not  that,  dull  and  cold, 
The  people  rob  them  statedly, 
And  do  by  law  the  shame. 

"It  seems  not  enough  that  they, 
Who  with  me  pursue  their  way 
Along  the  crags  of  knowledge 

To  enrich  the  world  indeed, 
Should  be  troubled  and  depressed, 
And  upon  me  lean  for  rest, 
Who  am  alien  to  the  comfort 

And  to  the  peace  they  need." 

But  while  Sorrow  spoke,  the  maid, 
Who  had  lent  the  silken  aid, 
Approached  the  twain,  and  greeted  them 

With  pleasure  in  her  grace ; 
And  they  knew  that  she  was  fair, 
With  her  golden  crown  of  hair, 
And  tender  eyes  that  filled  with  soul 
Her  oval,  Grecian  face. 

As  across  the  lettered  floor 
They  were  passing  to  the  door, 
The  lovely  maiden,  gentle  voiced, 
Said,  turning  to  her  guest, 


114  THE  CITY  OF  SUCCESS. 

"On  the  wall  to-morrow  night 
Will  appear  a  thrilling  sight, 
For  the  horsemen  with  their  horses 
Are  to  race  there,  ten  abreast. 

"  All  the  city  will  be  there. 
If  to  see  the  race  you  care, 
Be  in  readiness  and  waiting 

When  the  chimes  are  telling  nine." 
It  would  please  him  well  to  go. 
And,  to  streets  spread  out  below, 
They  loitered  down  a  laurel  path 
Before  the  fane  divine. 

Him  the  maiden  bade  adieu; 
Then,  with  Sorrow  tried  and  true, 
He  rode,  and  came  to  where  arose 

A  lilied,  marble  spire. 
"  Here,"  said  Sorrow,  "  they  bow  down, 
And  shall  win  a  lasting  crown, 
Who  tread  my  path  with  humble  feet, 
And  crush  each  low  desire. 

"My  dark  path  leads  up  to  joy 
That  I  know  not,  nor   annoy, 
For  that  it  lies  beyond  my  bourn, 
A  lucent  pearl,  great-priced." 
Sorrow  wept,  and  with  the  youth 
Entered  this  abode  of  truth, 
And  heard  the  holy  story 

Of  the  mild  and  patient  Christ 

In  the  morning  cool  and   sweet, 
Up  the  wide,  frequented  street, 
Alone  the  youth  walked,  seeing  much 

Along  the  paven  miles. 
Every  house  by  which  he  went 
Was  to  him  magnificent; 


THE  CITY  OF  SUCCESS.  115 

Yet  the  fountain   gargoyles  only 
For  the  passer-by  had  smiles. 

Here,  he  soon  could  plainly  see, 
Dwelt  no  rare  immunity 
From  any  evil  that  the  world 

Outside  the  walls  endured. 
Here  were  sickness,  pain,   and  death, 
Shame  and  crime  with  poison  breath, 
And  even  breadless  poverty 
A  dwelling  here  secured. 

Men  who  never  come  this  way 
Have  as  much  of  joy  as  they 
Who  here  abide  in  opulence, 

Their  idlest  wants  supplied ; 
For  success  lies  in  degrees, 
And  to  rise  to  one  of  these, 
And  see  the  others  higher  still, 
Is  like  a  thorn  to  pride. 

Up  and  down  throughout  Success 
Sought  the  youth  for   happiness, 
And  saw  it  was  an  empty  dream 

In  foolish  fashion's  halls. 
Everywhere  it  was  alloyed ; 
Nothing  fully  was  enjoyed ; 
For  Discontent  went  round,  or  sat 
Repining  on  the  walls. 

When  the  rising  moon  shone  white, 
And  the  city  was  alight. 
The  lady  came,  and  took  the  youth 

To  see  the  eager  race. 
Up  the  wall  ran  highways  wide ; 
On  them   streamed  a  living  tide 
Skyward  to  the  race-course  straight, 
And  poured  about  the  place. 


116  THE  CITY  OF  SUCCESS. 

All  that  seven-mile  course  along, 

On  each  buttress  tall  and  strong, 

That  propped  the  wall  on  either  side, 

And  past  its  top  arose, 
Stood  the  slanted  seats,  where  pressed 
Countless  people  richly  dressed, 
Who  took  their  places  to  behold 
The  swift  event  unclose. 

On   the  dizzy  battlements 
Brazen  cressets  burned  intense, 
And  flushed  the  massive,  mighty  wall 

With  scarlet  flowers  of  fire, 
Lighting  up  with  lurid  glare 
The  expectant  thousands  there, 
And  beaming  down  the  valley 
With  the  fervor  of  desire. 

At  the  goal  were  cressets  two 
Flinging  up  flame-arms  of  blue, 
And,  just  beyond,  abruptly  stood 

An  angle  of  the  wall. 
The  unmoving  foot  of  this 
Rested  on  a  precipice, 
And  the  pebbles  men  flung  down  it 
Seemed  to  never  cease  to  fall. 

In  the  shining,  jeweled  sword, 
Belted,  with  a  twinkling  cord, 
To  the  thigh  of  bright  Orion 

Where  he  stands  august  in  space, 
Is  a  gulf  of  darkness  great, 
Where  no  sun's  rays   penetrate  — 
An  awful  gulf  of  nothingness, 

A  black  and  worldless  place. 

So  appeared  the  dread  abyss 
Down  the  wall  and  precipice 


THE  CITY  OF  SUCCESS.  117 

To  those  who,  in  the  night,  with   fear, 

Looked  from  the  balustrade. 
Even  the  cressets'  angry  bloom 
Parted  not  the  heavy  gloom, 
That  lay  appallingly  beneath 

In  one  dense  hush  of  shade. 

Near  the  goal,  the  lady  fair 
And  the  youth  she  made  her  care 
Were  waiting,  on  the  cushioned  seats, 

And  Sorrow  sat  between. 
Sorrow  met  them  on  the  way  ; 
She  with  them  had  craved  to  stay, 
And  now  of  either  clasped  a  hand, 
And  looked  along  the  scene. 

At  the  place  of  starting  stood, 
Strong,  and  brave  to  hardihood, 
The  horsemen  in  their  chariots, 
Their  horses  fiery-eyed  — 
Coal-black  coursers  curbed  with  pain, 
Plunging,  fretting  at  the  rein, 
Long  of  limb  and  shaggy  mane, 
And  to  the  winds  allied. 

Now  they  start !  —  a  score  of  teams 
Harnessed  to  revolving  gleams, 
And  speed  along  the  softened  course 

Upon  the  city's  wall. 
Driving  hard  with  steady  hands, 
One  large-browed,  calm  raceman  stands, 
And  tho'  at  first  he  fell  behind, 
Ere  long  he  distanced  all. 

It  was  pleasure  worth  the  view, 
When  the  horses  almost  flew, 
To  note  the  rhythmic  movement 

With  which  some  strained  ahead. 


118  THE  CITY  OF  SUCCESS. 

These  were  urged  by  men  of  will, 
And  a  beauty  high  and  still 
Was  in  the  drivers'  faces 

While  they  ruled  the  strength  they  sped. 

As  of  these  each  horseman  fleets 
By  the  living,  breathless  seats, 
The  praise  of  hands  and  mouths  and  flowers 

With  bounty  is  bestowed. 
Yet  anew  it  makes  him  feel 
He  must  prove   more  true  than  steel 
To  win  the  goal  through  strong  restraint 
Along  the  flying  road. 

Some  gave  out  beside  the  way ; 
Those  who  in  the  race  must  stay, 
With  haggard  looks  and  hideous, 

Held  slack  the  useless  rein. 
They,  in  pressing  toward  the  goal, 
Of  their  beasts  had  lost  control, 
And  the  dark,  relentless  passions 
On  to  ruin  dashed  amain. 

Only  one  man  firm  and  true 
Paused  beyond  the  lights  of  blue ; 
For  the  rest,  who  were  behind  him, 

Rushing  by  with  panting  breath, 
From  the  sheer  and  sullen  wall 
Leaped,  and  beasts  and  drivers,  all, 
At  the  balustraded  angle, 

Uttered  headlong  down  to  death. 

Then  on  every  seated  bank 
Grew  the  weed,  confusion,  rank, 
And  on  the  wall  the  people  streamed 
With  shouts  and  mournful  cries. 
In  the  pressure  and  dismay, 
Sorrow's  hand-clasp  slipped  away, 


THE  CITY  OF  SUCCESS.  119 

And  the  youth  could  nowhere  find  it, 
Nor  the  fair  with  tender  eyes. 

Back  from  wall  and  buttress  wide, 
Down  the  highways  ebbed  the   tide  — 
A  saddened,   shuddering,  troubled  thing 

Whose  rose  was  ever  thorned. 
At  the  goal,  the  youth,  alone, 
Saw  that  all  the  rest  were  gone, 
And  saw,  in  sapphire  loneliness, 
The  crescent  silver-horned. 

Far  below  him,  in  the  vale, 
Honor's  river,  winged  with  sail, 
Flowed  along  the  hazy  quiet, 

Deep  and  strong,  and  sparkling  bright. 
Far  away  the  rim  loomed  up 
Of  the  massive  valley-cup 
That  held  the  drowsy  nectar 
Of  cool,  forgetful  night. 

He  beheld,  near  where  he  stood, 
Bathed  in  ruby  cresset-Wood, 
Or  the  flame's  glare  falling  on  her, 

A  woman  quite  alone. 
As  she  turned  and  beckoned  him, 
Through  the  shadows  dark  and  dim 
He  thought  he  there  descried  the  face 
Of  her  who  was  his  own. 

But  when  he  had  reached  her  side, 
And  her  features  dignified 
Looked  down  with  cold  severity, 

He  saw  it  was   not  she. 
With  harsh  voice  the  woman  said, 
"  I  am  Duty,  and   have  led 
Her  heart  to  whom  you  plighted  troth. 
Oh,  turn  and  follow  me  ! 


120  THE  CITY  OF  SUCCESS. 

"  They  who  truly  find  success 
Come  to  it  through  faithfulness, 
And  not  hy  silken  ladders  let 
By  tender  women  down. 
Happiness  is  found,  good  youth, 
In  sweet  love  and  honest  truth, 
And  naught  suffices  for  their  loss 
In  all  this  pleasant  town." 

Down  a  highway  to  the  street 
These  two  went  on  willing  feet, 
And  at  a  gate  a  sentinel, 

Who  knew  stern  Duty  well, 
At  her  word  advanced  them  through; 
For  the  youth,  to  Duty  true, 
Followed  her  in  weary  darkness 
Till  they  rested  in  a  dell. 

Soon  the  east  with  morning  glowed ; 
By  the  road  the  river  flowed, 
And  they  were  on  their  way  to  her 
Whose  love  the  youth  had  won. 
From  a  vessel  dropping  down, 
Laden  near  the  distant  town, 
They  heard  the  boatmen's  parting  song, 
And  watched  the  rising  sun. 

"We  depart,  and  little  care, 
Gilded  city  high  in  air, 
That  allures  the  simple-hearted 

From  his  peaceful  home  away; 
For  where  honor's  river  flows, 
And  the  hreeze  of  duty  blows, 
We  guide  the  prow  across  the  night 
To  harbors  of  the  day. 

"  We  the  way  to  joy  have  found ; 
But  while  sailing,  seaward  bound, 


A   SUIT  OF  ARMOR.  121 

We  quaff  the  sparkle  and  delight 

Of  crystal  depths  below. 
In  thee,  city,  shadows  dwell ; 
To  thy  walls,  farewell,  farewell ; 
We  seek  the  eternal  ocean 

Where  the  tides  of  gladness  flow." 


A  SUIT  OF  ARMOR. 

A  SUIT  of  ancient  armor  in  a  hall 

Stands  like  an  unopposing  sentinel; 

I  see  its  past  behind  it,  and  recall 

The  chivalry  that  vexed  the  infidel, 

That  waged  fierce  wars  and  wrought  of  woe  increase 

In  His  mild  name  who  is  the  Prince  of  Peace. 

This  unworn  armor  has  a  silent  speech ; 
To  more  than  steel  the  steel  is  riveted, 
And,  empty  and  forlorn,  appears  to  teach 
The  patient  hope  that  oft  is  felt  and  said, 
That  soon  all  armor  to  disuse  shall  pass, 
With  visored  helmet,  hauberk,  and  cuirass. 

There  were  true  knights  when  mail  like  this  was  worn 

In  the  long  struggle  for  Jerusalem. 

If  o'er  the  crescent  the  red  cross  was  borne, 

They  died  content.     But  fame  yet  lived  for  them, 

And  troubadours  their  brave  deeds  rhymed  upon 

From  stubborn  Antioch  to  Ascalon. 

Noblest  the  knights  while  they  were  few  and  poor ; 
They  vowed  to  tell  the  truth,  to  help  the  weak, 
To  flee  no  foe,  and  hold  each  trust  secure. 
They  let  their  simple  dress  their  lives  bespeak. 
Firm  in  misfortunes,  they  had  strength  to  be 
Humble  and  generous  in  victory. 


122  A   GUARDIAN  ANGEL. 

But  when  they  rose  to  luxury  and  power, 
When  wealth  and  honor,  bright-eyed  falcons,  stood 
On  their  triumphant  armor  —  in  that  hour 
Went  forth  from  chivalry  the  soul,  the  good  — 
And  knighthood  meant  a  price,  and  turned  away 
From  rugged  duty  into  weak  display. 

For  while  slow  progress  up  its  path  has  toiled, 

Who  has  been  faithful  that  has  touched  its  gains  ? 

As  the  clean  truth,  if  handled,  soon  is  soiled, 

So,  good  is  seldom  pure  that  long  obtains ; 

And  the  great  cause,  which  sought  to  help  and  bless, 

Dies  at  the  golden  summit  of  success. 

The  spirit  fled,  the  body  is  but  dust; 

It  lingers  in  corruption  and  decay ; 

It  may  not  look  on  favor  nor  mistrust, 

Tho'  many  praise  it  loud  who  said  it  nay. 

They  are  too  blind  to  see,  too  dull  to  feel, 

'T  is  empty  as  this  man-shaped  shell  of  steel. 


A   GUARDIAN   ANGEL. 

WITH  wings  of  love  as  stainless  and  as  white 
As  snow  untracked  or  clouds  against  the  blue, 
Clothed  with  God's  peace,  and  radiant  with  light 
That  over  him  his  aureola  threw, 
An  angel  dwelt  in  heaven,  and  all  bliss, 
Unending  and  unspeakable,  was  his. 

Out  of  God's  will,  to  this  dear  angel's  heart 
Came  in  grand  music  what  in  words  is   said  : 
"  To  yon  far  sparkle  of  the  earth  depart  — 
That  bridge    the  short-lived  generations  tread  — 
And  I  will  give  it  thee  to  guard  and  tend 
A  soul  untried,  and  be  his  guide  and  friend. 


A   GUARDIAN  ANGEL.  123 

"  Or  guide,  or  friend,  truth- whisperer,  or  guard, 
Be  each,  and  all  in  one,  to  keep  him  true ; 
Yet,  if  he  long  neglect  thee,  and  make  hard 
And  wearisome  this  duty  thine  to  do, 
Thou  need'st  not  wait  to  strive  against  his  sin, 
But,  at  the  gates  uplifted,  enter  in." 

Swift  are  the  rays,  the  arrows  of  the  morn, 
That  pierce  the  dark  and  shoot  across  the  sky  — 
Swifter  the  angel  who,  through  ether  lorn, 
Pierced  on  displaying  wings,  until  on  high 
God's  joy-paved  city  dwindled  to  a  star, 
And  the  small  earth,  a  pale  moon,  shone  afar. 

Hither,  in  silent  flight,  he  took  his  way, 

And  found  at  noon,  beside  a  shady  stream, 

A  youth  asleep,  and  hovered  where  he  lay, 

Appearing  to  the  sleeper  in  a  dream ; 

And  was  a  vision  of  sublime  delight, 

With  gleaming  wings  and  robe  of  snowy  white. 

With  what  regretful  tears  in  Heaven's  book, 

The  record  of  our  lives  is  oft  set  down! 

Filled  with  high  hope  the  handsome  youth  forsook 

His  native  village  for  the  crowded  town, 

And  met  the  varied  shapes  of   vice  and  sin 

That,  clothed  with  soft  enticement,  walk  therein. 

He  battled  long  their  vain,  misleading  charms, 
Helped  by  the  angel  in  his  troubled  breast: 
Arose  no  peal  of  strife,  no  noise  of  arms, 
But  fierce  and  giant  warfare,  wild  unrest, 
Raged  in  the  soul ;  and  Virtue's  citadel, 
Stormed  by  the  lower  passions,  crashing,  fell. 

When  these  have  sway,  how  dark  the  soul  and  drear ! 
His  gentle  friends,  who  saw  with  inner  eyes, 


124  A   GUARDIAN  ANGEL. 

Beheld  the  man  debased,  yet,  ever  near, 
An  angel  following  with  ruthful  cries, 
Beseeching  him  his  erring  steps   to  cease, 
To  turn  and  rest  upon  the  heart  of   Peace. 

With  holy  angels  there  is  joy  in  pain  — 
Their  pain  is  borne  for  love,  and  love  is  joy. 
This  angel  would  not  now  return  again 
To  heavenly  doors ;  but  he  would  have  employ 
To  lead  a  soul  to  pleasant  fields  beyond, 
From  the  deep  slough  of  error  and  despond. 

His  still,  small  voice  fell  fainter  —  less  and  less 
Pleading  and  sad  as  following  he  went ; 
And  the  long  years  were  one  with  weariness, 
Till  to  the  man    life's  shadow,  death,  was  sent 
But  heeding  his  good  angel,  ere  he  died 
He  worshiped  Him  whom  he  had  crucified. 

Bearing  in  arms  of  love  the  soul  set  free, 
The  angel,  with  God's  glory  on  his  face, 
Mounted  on  wings  outspread  exultingly, 
Trailing  his  lily  robe ;  and  as  through  space 
Angel  and  soul  approached  the  central  star, 
Before  them  heaven  shone  with  joy  afar. 

Oh,  happy  are  the  meetings  that  await 
The  crossers  to  that  star  of  higher  powers ! 
The  soul  found  that  the  angel  was  a  mate 
That  he  had  loved  and  lost  in  boyhood  hours. 
Ah !  who  can  tell  ?     Belike  to  all  God   sends, 
As  guardian  angels,  their  departed  friends. 


AUTUMN  BALLAD.  125 


AUTUMN   BALLAD. 

How  mild  and  fair  the  day,  dear  love  !  and  in  these 
garden  ways 

The  lingering  dahlias  to  the  sun  their  hopeless  faces 
raise. 

The  buckwheat  and  the  barley,  once  so  bonny  and  so 
blithe, 

Fall  before  the  rhythmic  labor  of  the  cradler's  gleam 
ing  scythe. 

Behold  the  grapes  and  all  the  fruits  that  Autumn 
gives  to-day, 

As  robed  in  red  and  gold,  she  rules,  the  Empress  of 
Decay ! 

Out  to  the  orchard  come  with  me,  among  the  apple- 
trees  ; 

No  dragon  guards  the  laden  boughs  of  our  Hesperides. 

This  golden  pear,  my  darling,  that  I  hold  up  to  your 
mouth, 

Is  a  hanging-nest  of  sweetness ;  but  the  birds  are  wing 
ing  south. 

The  purses  of  the  chestnuts,  by  the  chilly-fingered 
Frost, 

Were  opened  in  his  frolic,  and  their  triple  hoards  are 
lost. 

Last  night  you  heard  the  tempest,  love  —  the  wind-en 
tangled  pines, 

The  spraying  waves,  the  sobbing  sky  that  lowered  in 
gloomy  lines ; 

The  storm  was  like  a  hopeless  soul,  that  stood  beside 
the  sea, 

And  wept  in  dismal  rain  and  moaned  for  what  could 
never  be. 


126  THE  RINGER'S  VENGEANCE. 


THE  RINGER'S  VENGEANCE. 

IN  Florence  dwelt  a  tall  and  handsome  youth, 
Courted  and  praised  by  fashion's  fickle  throng, 
Plighted  to  one  he  loved  in  simple  truth  — 
A  lady  proud,  whose  black  hair,  fine  and  long, 
Some  said,  was  like    a  flag,  that  waved  or  fell 
Above  her  heart's  deceitful  citadel. 

The  youth's  days  now  were  bright,  as  days  may  be 

To  all  who  love  as  lovers  always  should ; 

But  one  fell  night  a  cry  of  dread  ran  free, 

And  one  belov'd  in  deadly  peril  stood. 

About  her  house  the  hot  flames  roared  and  broke 

In  waves  of  fire  that  dashed  a  spray  of  smoke. 

Prone  on  the  seat  within  her   oriel 
The  lady  sank  ;  then  he,  her  lover,   came 
And  lowered  her  to  the  street ;  but  it  befell 
That,  as  he  turned  back  from  the  leaping  flame, 
The  burning  roof  crashed  in,  and  to  the  floor 
A  heavy,  falling  beam  his  body  bore. 

They    brought    him    forth,    all    bleeding,    burned,    and 

crushed, 

And  long  he  lay,  and  neither  stirred  nor  spoke ; 
Not  yet  by  wayward  death  his  heart  was  hushed, 
But  seemed  a  blacksmith  pounding  stroke  by  stroke, 
And  mutely  toiling  on  from  sun  to  sun, 
Until  bis  fateful  labor  should  be  done. 

For  love  and  youth  with  smiling  life   are  fraught ; 
They  cling  to  life  wherein  to  move  and  dwell. 
The  youth  came  back,   at  last,  to  life  and  thought, 
And  longed  to  see  her  whom  he  loved  so  well. 


THE  RINGER'S  VENGEANCE.  127 

"She  will  be  true  and  kind  to  me,"  he  said, 
"  And  glad  shall  be  the  days  when  we  are  wed. 

"  Dear  love  !   she  will  behold  me  with  her  heart, 
And  pity  me,  because  my  lot  is  hard  ; 
She  will  not  look  on  this  mere  outer  part 
That  for  her  sake  is  crippled  and  is  scarred." 
False  hope,  poor  heart !  —  for,  when  the  lady  came, 
She  turned  away  with  loathing,  to  her  shame. 

As  one  in  swamps  sees  fireflies  flare  in  gloom, 
And  fancies  them  the  street-lights  of  a  town 
Whose  spires  and  domes  in  lofty  shadows  loom, 
Yet  finds  at  dawn  but  lowland,   so  came  down 
The  fond  hopes  of  the  sufferer,  who  found 
Beneath  his  feet  a  waste  and  useless  ground. 

Yet  Sorrow  brings  no  dagger  in  her  hand 

To  slay  the  heart  with  whom  she  comes  to  dwell ; 

The  youth  lived  on,  and  he  was  wont  to  stand 

Before  a  church,  and  listen  to  the  bell 

That  in  a  great  spire,  bright  with  golden  gloss, 

Laughed  from  its  yellow  throat  beneath  the  cross. 

Then  loss  of  wealth  with  other  damage  fell, 

And  for  a  beggar's  pittance  he  became 

The  ringer  of  the  wide-mouthed,  thick-lipped  bell, 

Whose  noisy  somersets  he  made  proclaim 

Vesper  or  mass  or  lovers  to  be  wed, 

Or  pulled  it  with  large  pity  for  the  dead. 

And  now  they  bade  him  ring  a  joyful  peal ; 
For  she  who  once  had  clothed  his  heart  with  pain 
Before  the  altar  'neath  the  bell  would  kneel, 
And  wed  another ;  then,  for  good  or  bane, 
There  came  two  spirits  out  of  east  and  west, 
And  battled  fiercely  in   the  ringer's  breast. 


128  THE  RINGER'S  VENGEANCE. 

Hate's  dark-winged  spirit  like  a  shadow  came, 
And  carried   for  a  shield  the  ringer's  wrong; 
The  spirit's   eyes  burned  with  a  quenchless  flame  ; 
His  sword,  revenge,  was  merciless  and  strong, 
And  now  resembled  justice,  as  it  fell 
With  such  swift  strokes  as  he  could  best  compel. 

The  spirit  of  Forgiveness  was  like  day, 
Was  crowned  with  love  divine,  and  for  a  shield 
Had  peace  and  innocence ;   while  in  the  fray 
The  wounds  he  took  were  patiently  concealed. 
He  strove  to  break  his  dark  opponent's  sword, 
And  save  the  ringer  from  a  deed  abhorred. 

All  the  long  night  before  the  wedding-morn 

The  ringer  in  the  belfry  worked,  dark-browed, 

And,  as  he  looked  forth  when  the  day  was  born, 

The  better  spirit  in  his  heart  was  cowed. 

The  nails  were  drawn,  the  beams  made  weak  at  last, 

That  once  had  held  the  great  bell  firm  and  fast. 

He  saw  the   glowing  landscape,  and  to  him 
It  was  a  cup,  and  there  the  red  sun  stood, 
A  drop  of  splendid  wine  upon  the  rim, 
And  clouds  arose  in  somber  cloak  and  hood, 
And,  with  their  stained  lips  at  the  far,  blue  brink, 
Seemed  evil  genii  that  had  come  to  drink. 

Arrived  in  time,  with  followers  in  file, 
The  happy  bridegroom  and  his  smiling  bride 
Advanced  to  organ-music  up  the  aisle, 
And  knelt  down  at  the  altar,  side  by  side. 
The  bride   looked  up  beneath  her  veil  of  lace, 
And  saw  with  fear  the  ringer's  livid  face. 

Then  sprang  he  to  the  rope  to  ring  her  knell, 
With  all  the  rage  of  his  inclement  soul  ; 


IRAK.  129 

The  huge,  inverted  lily  of  the  bell 
Shook  in  the  gust,  and,  with  a  last  loud  toll, 
Fell  from  its  place,  resounding  far   and  wide, 
And  gave  to  Death  the  ringer    and  the  bride. 

Alas  !    for  her ;  it  was  her  sin  to  feign 
True  love  that  she  nor  felt  nor  understood. 
Alas  !    for  him,  that  he  avenged  his  pain ; 
He  might  have  joined  the  noblest  brotherhood ; 
For,  wrongs  that  are  forgiven  in  our  sin, 
Are  doors  where  loving  angels  enter  in. 


IRAK. 

MY  sire  was  Tobba-Himyar,  Yemen's  King, 
And  Arem  was  the  center  of  his  power. 
Eastward  the  wide,  red  desert  paid  him  tax ; 
For,  of  the  Bedouin,  a  score  of  tribes 
Brought  lavish  tribute  for  their  vassalage. 
He  gave  his  realm  such  wealth  of  happy  days 
That  it  was  called  The  Happy,  every  where. 
Generous,  but  for  blind  justice  stern, 
His  life  was  such  as  aye  befits  a  king. 
He  let  no  shadow  swerve  his  steadfast  will, 
But  stayed  his  mind  on  plain  realities. 

His  was  the  actual,  mine  the  ideal  life ; 
For  Hagi,  the  magician,  led  me  on 
Till  oft  to  deaf  abstraction  I  was  rapt 
By  waking  dreams  of  boundless  universe, 
And  spirit  creatures  haunting  every  gloom. 
Gray  Hagi,  in  the  midnight,  when  the  stars 
Burned  with  their  silver  splendor,  in  the  calm 
Gathered  about  him  beings  of  the  sky  — 
Alitta,  Hebal  with  his  seven  shafts, 
9 


130  IRAK. 

The  seven  planets'  seven  kindly  gods, 

The  servants  of  the  black  and  sacred  stone  — 

And  whispered  with  them,  cheek  by  jowl,  and  reached 

Far  glimpses  of  the  future's  caravan 

Approaching  our  small  earth ;  occurrences 

Whose  coming,  furtive  footfalls  make  no  sound. 

In  those  dim  days  the  world  was  like  a  dream, 

And  life  seemed  vaster  than  the  sandy  waste 

Lost  in  the  azure  solitude  of  sky. 

When,  by  meek  Hagi  guided,  I  arrived 

At  a  smooth  upland  of  recondite  thought, 

He  gave  me  this :    a  rhymed,  time-stained  divan, 

By  one  who,  writing,  knew  to  choose  the  best 

From  infinite  suggestions  of  the  mind. 

The  verse  was  like  thick,  raw-silk  cloth,  shot  through 

With  rare,  imaginative  gold,  and  wrought 

With  grotesque  fancies  sweetly  numerous  — 

Weird  incantations  strange  as  death,  strong  spells 

That  swayed  the  genii  and  the  monstrous  forms 

That  scarcely  leave  deep  darkness  ;   this,  hi  might, 

Roused  dread  revenges  dealing  strife  and  blood ; 

And  this,  from  out  his  mire,  a  dragon  called, 

The  blear-eyed,  warted  offspring  of  disgust. 

But  on  the  margin  of  the  final  leaf 

Was  penned  the  spell  of  Serosch,  which,  when  said, 

Baffles  the  dragon  and  the  frightful  deevs. 

Now,  bordering  these  days,  the  King  fell  sick. 
A  black-winged  spirit  took  him  in  its  arms 
And  bore  him  nightward  while  the  people  wept. 
I  should  not  hear  his  rich-toned  voice  again. 
An  awful  and  impenetrable  change 
Mantled  his  features,  and  he  passed  away 
Into  the  endless  silence ;   but  his  smile 
Lighted,  a  space,  the  valley-land  of  death. 
Then  I  in  my  great  grief  bowed  down  distraught : 


IRAK.  131 

I  heard  the  wailing  of  the  streeted  woe 
That  once  was  Arem,  city  of  delight ; 
I  heard  the  harps,  by  sympathy  caressed, 
Moan  musical  regret  down  palace  halls ; 
I  heard  the  softened  footfalls  come  and  go ; 
I  heeded  naught :    I  knew  that  he  was  dead, 
And  clad  my  soul  in  sack-cloth,  with  one  wish, 
To  dwell  alone  with  sorrow  till  I  died. 

Then,  as  the  long  procession  of  the  hours, 

Star-jeweled,  or  appareled  by  the  sun, 

Passed,  with  the  banner  of  a  waning  moon, 

Into  the  month  that  followed  Himyar's  death, 

Rose  the  vast  populace  and  crowned  me  King  — 

Me,  a  mere  youth,  an  abject  slave  to  tears. 

It  pleased  them  well  to  woo  me  from  my  grief : 

Before  the  curtain  of  dim  dusk  had  dropped, 

They  flamed  the  lights  in  red  carnelian  globes, 

Lest  gloom  might  foster  gloom ;  beside  my  couch, 

They  burned  frankincense  in  an  agate  vase ; 

And  black-eyed  girls,  their  bodies  swaying  lithe, 

And  wrists  and  ankles  tinkling  pearls  and  gold, 

Danced  to  the  rapture  of  the  lute  and  flute, 

Their  long  hair  rhythmically  undulant. 

The  music  rose  and  broke  like  javelins 

At  sorrow  and  at  silence  deftly  hurled 

By  unseen  outposts  of  approaching  joys. 

For  when  the  tenth  diverted  day  had  passed, 

Lulled  into  slumber  by  the  wedded  tones, 

I  drifted  duskward  in  a  boat  of  palm 

That,  helm  to  prow,  with  mother-of-pearl  was  lined, 

And  glided  down  a  valley's  silver  stream, 

And  paused  among  close-petaled  fragrances 

That  with  intoxicating  gladness  breathed, 

Telling  the  love  that  thrilled  from  root  to  flower. 

These  rocked  in  music  of  the  fluting  breeze, 

And  all  was  music,  and  the  dream  a  song. 


132  IRAK. 

From  out  this  mingled  melody  and  sleep 

A  memory,  like  the  maiden  from  the  fount, 

Rose  fair,  and  glimmered  through  a  mist  of  tears, 

But  shaped  the  die  that,  after,  molded  act ; 

For  I  bethought  me  of  my  idle  past, 

In  which,  in  Riad,  northward  situate, 

I  heard  the  tones  that  floated  down  my  dream. 

Then,  leaving  Hagi  to  the  cares  of  state, 

And  choosing  escort  sworn  to  secrecy 

That  the  rash  step  should  not  he  jarred  abroad, 

We  took  the  desert  beasts,  and  were  away. 

But,  as  we  crossed  the  heated  Dahna  waste, 

Arose  the  slow  simoom,  and,  by  good  chance, 

I  parted  from  my  band,  and  stood  alone, 

And  watched  the  crouching  lion  of   the  storm 

That,  maned  with  darkness,  loomed  against   the  sky, 

And  roared  his  arid  hunger  to  the  world. 

Before  the  violet  poison  of  his  breath 

An  ostrich  fled  on  wing-assisted  feet. 

My  Nejdee  lay  with  nostrils  close  to  earth, 

And,  as  the  storm  came  near,  I  cast  me  prone 

Beside  him,  and  drew  breath  with  lips  in  dust, 

Till  the  blown  whirl  of  sandy  peril  wild, 

Passed  over  me,  and,  moaning,  went  its  way. 

It  so  befell  that  I,  of   all  my  band, 

Alone  survived  that  lion's  fatal  rage. 

Night  after  night  I  vaguely  northward  went 

Without  a  guide  except  the  friendly  stars. 

I  longed  for  even  a  crust,  and  flag'd  with  thirst; 

Yet,  ere  my  strength  had  wholly  ebbed  away, 

At  morn  I  saw  with  doubt  a  distant  grove ; 

But  urged  my  worn  horse  toward  it,  till  the  doubt, 

A  bird  of  darkness,  fled  the  light  of  truth. 

Here,  on  a  small  oasis,  near  the  spring, 

A  sheik  had  pitched  his  tent  of   camels'  hair, 

And  stood  before  the  door  hospitable. 


IRAK.  ]  33 

With  millet-cakes,  and  dates  with  butter  pressed, 
And  pleasant  words  —  for  he  had  known  my  sire  — 
He  gave  me  entertainment  three  brief  days ; 
But  on  the  fourth,  when  from  her  slumber  rose 
Dawn  in  her  gauzy  raiment  decked  with  pearls, 
He  set  out  with  me,  that  I  might  not  err. 

Ho  on  his  camel,  I  on  my  Nejdee  speed, 
For  seven  days,  the  burning  miles  traversed. 
Then,  as  mild  twilight,  with  bejeweled  hands, 
Came  braiding  her  long  tresses,  like  a  star 
Seen  from  the  gloomy  cave  of  our  fatigue, 
Rose  Riad,  crowned  with  turrets  glimmering. 
The  sheik  embraced  me  now,  and  said  farewell ; 
But  frowned  as  he  my  diamond  gift  pushed  back. 
The  city's  gates  stood  open :  in  their  might, 
They  knew  no  fear ;  and  itching-handed  trade 
Was  trustful  of  the  long-continued  peace. 
I  led  my  horse  among  an  idle  throng 
That  listened  to  a  grizzled,  nomad  bard 
Who  jingled  rhymes,  like  silver  in  a  purse, 
In  praise  of  princess  Zayda :  kind  was  she, 
He  sang ;  but  even  as  beautiful  as  kind. 
Her  eyes  were  stars  reflected   in  the  sea, 
Her  breath  was  lovely  perfume  of  the  rose, 
Her  step  was  lighter  than  the  coy  gazelle's ; 
And  she,  that  morning  riding  near  the  gate, 
Gave  him  an  opal  with  its  heart  of  flame 
For  a  smooth  lyric  of  a  kindred  core. 

As  my  forthgoing  to  that  outland  town 

Was  of  a  vagrant  fancy  born  of  sleep, 

I  cast  aside  my  baubles,  and  put   on 

A  plainer  guise,  and  went  about  the  streets. 

I  mingled  with  the  common  of  the  mart, 

And  heard  them  speak  of  Tobba-Himyar's  death, 

And  of  his  son,  a  weakling  crushed    by  grief, 


134  IRAK. 

Who  lacked  his  father's  force,  and  only  knew 
To  rule  a  kingdom  in  the  world  of  dreams. 
For  pastime  with  a  zest  of  novelty, 
1  chaffered  with  the  venders  in  bazaars ; 
And,  buying  once  a  turban  from  a  Jew, 
Threw  down  some  paltry  silver  to  a  shape 
That  cringed  before  me  with  a  hateful  leer, 
And  begged,  he  said,  because  the  king  was  rich; 
But  seeing  how  his  pleading  had  borne  fruit, 
Exclaimed,  with  pleasure  in  his  greedy  eyes, 
"  May  kiss  of  Zayda  be  thy  round  reward ! " 

These  humble  days  wore  on ;  and  straying  forth, 

At  noon,  along  a  viny  slope  that  trailed 

Its  green  skirt,  blossom  broidered,  in  a  stream 

Whose  full,  suburban  course  curved  languidly, 

I  on  the  lush  bank  sat,  and  watched  below 

The  sword-like  flash  of  silver  scales,  that  shone 

Where  the  hot  sunlight,  through  the  leafy  roof, 

Clasped  a  gold  bracelet  on  the  watery  arm. 

The  hazy  air  lay  on  the  grassy  hills 

Like  gossamer,  and  thinner  than  the  shawls 

That  merchants  draw  through  ladies'  finger-rings. 

A  listless  camel  cropped  the  verdure  near. 

I  heard  the  sultry  drone  of  pollened  swarms, 

And,  dimly  conscious  that  a  subtle  thing 

Had  coiled  before  me,  saw  the  distance  change 

And  rise,  like  incense,  to  the  fading  sun. 

Then  Iliad,  gorged  by  sudden  ruin,  sank, 

Dissolved  in  mist,  and  the  flat  world  was  void. 

But  soon  my  dizzy  fancy  whirled  with  dreams; 

On  amber  isles,  in  sunset's   ocean,  rose 

Arem  and  Mecca  armed  with  soaring  towers, 

Far-glittering  Balbec  whose  huge  masonry 

Was  by  the  unseen  genii  lightly  reared, 

And  that  strange  City  of  Pillars,  that  Shedad  built, 

Which,  long  untenanted,  remains  entire, 


IRAK.  135 

And  stands    mysterious,  invisible 

To  all  save    heaven-favored  travelers ; 

For  men  may  walk  its  streets  and  know  it  not. 

Beneath  the  cities   yawned  a  murky  gulf 

That  swallowed  them,   at  last,   and  all  was  dark. 

The  night  pervaded  space,    and  had  no  bounds. 

The  stars  were  blotted,  and  the  blinded  earth, 

By  her  own  elements    consumed,    was  blown 

Through  the  dull  gloom   in  dust  impalpable. 

But  I  with  spectral  glide    explored  those  fields 

Until  I  came  to   where    abrupt  they  swept 

Downward,  like   some    great  wave  of  deepest  sea, 

Into  a  valley  cold   and   dolorous. 

Below  me,  midway   on  the  slope,  there  rose 

A  somber  portal   strewn   with  ashy  bones. 

I  heard  the  hingy   thunder    of  the  gate ; 

And  grimly  issued   thence   the  dragon,  Death, 

Fiercer  than  frothing    madness,  and  so  vast 

No  antique  hippogriff    had  braved  his  wrath. 

His  eyes  were  sunken,    and  his  putrid  jaws, 

Distending  wide,  red   drippled  of  his  feast. 

His  wings   were  cloud-like,   and  his   breath  a  storm, 

And,  all  puissant   in  his   bony   mail, 

He  came  at  me,  a  king,    this    monster,  Death. 

Bat  I  recalled  ths  spell   of    Serosch,  penned 

On  the  stained  margin  of    the  old  divan  ; 

For  there  that  angel  wrote   it  when  he  paused 

Once  in  his  thought-swift,    seven-fold,  nightly  flight 

Around  the  sleeping   earth,   to  guard  good  men. 

I  said  his  magic   words  as  with  drawn  blade 

To  meet  the   dread   destroyer  I  went  down. 

Escaping    Death's   cold  jaws,  beneath  his  wing 

That,    webbed  with  terrors,  over  me   displayed, 

I  thrust  at  his   fell  heart,  and  saw  its  blood 

Burst  from  the  wound  in  black  forgetfulness. 

I  felt    that  I  had  done  a  mighty  deed, 


136  IRAK. 

Because  with  strenuous  arm  and  eager  front 
I   gave  to  his  own  sleep  the  dragon,  Death. 
But  now   rolled  back  the  pallid  sea  of  mist, 
The  curling  incense   swung  from  censer  stars, 
Scooped  by  sirocco  from  the  under  sky. 
Slowly  from  this  came  out  the  distant  view 
And  Riad  with  its  cliff-like  walls  and  towers. 

Before  me,   severed  in  the  glossy  midst, 

A    baffled  serpent  writhed  with  wrathful  hiss ; 

And  bending  over  stood  a  form  so  rare 

I  fancied  that  the  charm  was  still  complete, 

That  still  my  brain  was  pictured  with  a  dream. 

The  maiden  bade  her  slave  take  back  his  sword, 

And  shed  on   me  heart-sunlight  with  her  smiles. 

She  led  along  a  path  to  her  kiosk, 

And  sat  beside  a  fount,  and  bade   me  speak. 

I  thanked   her  for  my  life,  which  she  had  saved, 

Not  worth  the  viperine,  unselfish  risk. 

I  said  I  was  a  desei-t  wanderer 

Veered  by    the  winds  of  chance,  but  nobly  born. 

Her  voice  was  like  the  carol  of  a  bird : 

"  The  sweetest  waters  of  Arabia 

Kise  in  the  desert:  so  the  proverb  runs," 

She  said,  and  blushed  as  if  the  fairied  air 

Into  a  crimson  rose  were  changing  her. 

The  fountain  plashed  its  crystals,  each  on  each, 

That  in  the  pool-vase  fell  in  showers  of  light. 

The  polished  floor  of  tessellated  stone 

Lay  like  a  ripe  pomegranate  cleft  in  twain ; 

A  stairway  with  a  heavy  balustrade, 

Wound  upward  to  a  gilded  gallery 

On  which,  at  either  side  a  curtained  arch, 

A  statue  stood  as  warder :    one  upheld 

A  meaning  finger  to  the  sky,  and  one 

Maintained  the  gathered  drapery  at  its  breast, 

And  clutched  a  scroll,  and  bent  the  head  in  thought. 


IRAK.  137 

On  golden  wheels  the  joyful  days  rolled  by, 

And,  keeping  in  disguise  my  rank  and  power, 

I  wooed  and  won  the  princess  Zayda's  love. 

Then  to  the  haughty  King  went  some  vile  spy, 

And  in  my  ears  were  echoed  bloody  words 

That  craved  to  slay   me  lest  I  grow  more  bold. 

At  night  a  messenger  toward  Arem  sped 

Bearing  these  news  to  Hagi:    "  Swiftly  send 

Ten  thousand  horsemen,  veterans  of  the  war, 

To  enter  Riad  at  its  many  gates, 

And  wait  about  the  palace  for  my  call, 

On  the  first  midnight  of  the  next  new  moon." 

But  lest  a  secret  dagger  might  divert 

The  armed  arrival  to  another's  use, 

I  said  to  her  who  loved  me,  that  a  vow 

Pressed  on  me  much  to  be  at  once  performed  — 

That  I  would  ride  to  Mecca,  and  go  round 

Seven  times  the  Caaba's  heaven-descended  stone, 

And  then  come  back,   to  reach  her  ere  again 

The  slender  crescent  sailed  the  western  sky. 

So  I   a  caravan  for  Mecca  joined, 

And,  on  the  sacred  journey's  living  wave, 

The  dromedary,  rocked,  reached  pilgrim-wise 

The  worshiped  stone,  and  paid,   indeed,  my  vow. 

"When  on  the  far-off  verge  the  faint  new  moon 

Lifted  its  prow  of  pearl,  upon  the  hill, 

That  passively  looks  down  on  Iliad's  towers, 

I  too  looked  down,  and  watched  the  many  lights 

Gleam,  and  saw  the  buildings,  shadow-like, 

Wed  vaster  shadows  of  dream-haunted  night. 

I  entered  at  a  gate  that,   like  the  rest, 

Stood   open  wide,  and  reached  with  weary  beast 

The  many-peopled  inn.     Thence,  when   refreshed, 

I  went  to  Zayda,  who  awaited  me 

In  palace  depths,  and  seeing  me  approach, 

Rose  from  the   languid  cushions,  crowned  with  joy 

As  with  a  chaplet  woven  of  fresh  flowers. 


138  IRAK. 

That  night,  to  his  chief  officers,  the  King 

Gave  a  rich  banquet  in  his  lofty  hall. 

The  drinking-cups  of  gold  with  rubies  set 

Poured  down  the  vinous  riot  to  the  blood. 

The  distant  laughter  of  the  revel  came 

To  our  young  ears,  as  now  to  me    is  borne, 

Down  the  dim  length   of  memory's  palace-halls, 

The  recollection  of  that  happy  time. 

And  Zayda's  tender  accents,  soft  and  low, 

Were  the  remembered  music  that  I  heard 

When  in  my  grief  I  sailed  a  tide  of  dreams. 

I   said  that  our   true  love  was  like  a  ship 

Lashed  by  wild   winds  and  cold,  remorseless  waves ; 

Yet  I,  the  pilot  guiding  through  the  storm, 

Saw  Safety,  in  her  harbor,  beckoning. 

Even  as  I   spoke,  the  arras  near  me   swung, 

Perchance   in  the   light  breeze-  that  floated  by, 

And  on  my  ear  these  words  fell   soft   as  dew : 

"  We    come :    our  swords    are    sheathed ;    our     banners 

furled." 

Then   entered  slaves,  their  gleaming  sabers  drawn, 
And  led  me  to   the  presence  of  the  King 
Who   sat,  above  his  guests,   upon  the  throne. 
He  said  that  I  must  die  ;  he  so  decreed ; 
For,   by   the  mad  presumption  of   my  love, 
I  cast  base  insult  at  his  royal  power. 
Brave  Zayda  on  her  knees  implored  for  me, 
And  vined  her  arms  about  my  neck,  and  wept. 
Then  waved  the  King  his  slaves  to  take  me  thence. 
I  brushed  them  off,  and,  high  above  the  hush, 
Voiced  the  alarm  ;  and  into  that  bright  room 
Rushed  my  fierce  warriors,  as  I  cast  aside 
The  loose  disguise  that  hid  my  royal  robes, 
And  stood  before  them,  while  they  knelt  around, 
Irak,  the  son  of  Himyar,  and  their  King! 

In  the  same  hall,  I  made  the  princess  mine, 
And  crowned  her  Queen  of  Yemen  and  my  bride. 


FOREKNOWLEDGE.  139 

With  flags  and  roses  they  festooned  the  walls, 
And  mirth  and  music  reveled  in  the  streets, 
And  myriad  welcomes,  jubilant  and  sweet, 
Rose  in  the  sunny  air,  or  fell  with  flowers. 

And  since,  the  brittle  goblets  of  my  years, 
Filled  to  the  brim  with  golden  honey-mead, 
And  handed  me  by  the  great  cup-bearer,  Fate, 
Have  all  been  deeply  quaffed ;  but  from  these  hands 
Fallen  away,  lie  shattered  at  my  feet  — 
The  mute  mementos  of  a  life  of  joy. 
1863. 


FOREKNOWLEDGE. 

AT  Pentland  Frith,  beside  the  sea-coast  white, 
Stood  an  old  inn  to  which  the  young  Laird  came. 
Rain  and  wild  wind  fulfilled  the  sightless  night : 
But  good  cheer  laughed  before  the  hearth-stone  flame. 
Well  entertained,  the  pleased  and  drowsy  guest, 
Ere  it  was  late,  retired  to  dreamful  rest. 

His  father's  death  had  left  him  an  estate 
On  Mainland  of  the  Orkneys  off  in  sea ; 
And  in  the  Hall,  now  part  in  ruins,  Fate 
Had  roofed  and  reared  his  titled  ancestry. 
To  visit  it  the  Laird  was  on  his  way, 
And  would  embark  betimes  the  coming  day. 

He  felt  the  old  inn  tremble  in  the  roar ; 
But  soon  to  him  all  sounds  became  remote, 
And  he  was  walking  on  the    island's  shore ; 
For  he  had  crossed  the  Frith  without  a  boat, 
And  saw  the  Hall's  great  windows  all  alight 
In  the  weird  depth  of  that  forbidding  night. 


140  FOREKNOWLEDGE. 

He  treads  his  hall  of  banqueting,  rebuilt 
By  sleepless  fancy  from  moss-grown  decay. 
It  flames  with  wax-lights  whose  thin  lances  tilt 
And  splinter  on  the  gloss  of  rich  array. 
A  tapestry  garden,  gay  with  woven  bloom, 
Is  hung  around  the  tiled  and  corbeled  room. 

In  crystal  and  on  gold  a  feast  is  spread, 
And  they  thereat  are  guests  of  high  degree ; 
While  he,  the  Laird,  is  seated  at  the  head, 
And  wonders  who  the  gentlefolk  may  be. 
But  as  his  glance  from  face  to  face  is  cast, 
Up,  at  the  spectral  sight,  he  starts  aghast ! 

He  sees  his  ancestors!     And  he  recalls 

That  often,  in  his  boyhood,  he  has  viewed, 

Against  the  gallery's  wainscoted  walls, 

Their  vivid  portraits  from  the  frames  protrude. 

His  ancestors,  in  order  as  they  died, 

Are  ranged  along  the  board  at  either  side. 

First  of  the  line,  and  opposite  the  Laird, 
Fierce  in  the  tawny  skins  of  beasts  of  prey, 
A  chieftain  sits,  blue-eyed  and  yellow-haired, 
To  whom  the  brave  drank  wassail  in  Ids  day. 
In  storm  of  battle  fell  this  Norse  oak  tree, 
The  sturdy  founder  of  the  family. 

The  late  laird  sits  beside  the  living  host; 

His  light  of  life  went  out  the  year  before. 

And  next  there  is  a  fonder,  dearer  ghost, 

Come  back  through  sleep  to  be  with  him  she  bore  ; 

Her  smile,  that  in  his  heart's  core  has  a  place, 

Still  glorifies  her  mild  and  saintly  face. 

The  dead,  when  they   return  to  us  in  sleep, 
Are  seldom  frightful  and  of  horrid  mien. 


FOREKNOWLEDGE.  141 

Their  changeless  forms  the  bygone  likeness  keep, 
And  give  no  token  of  the  dim  unseen. 
Their  presence  seems  not  strange  ;  they  speak  their  will ; 
We  answer  them,  and  are  familiar  still. 

But  here  the  sleeper  shudders  to  behold 
His  unexpected  guests,  and  knows  that  they 
From  tombs  of  sculptured  quiet  stained  and  old, 
Through  wind  and  rain  have  found  their  lonely  way. 
They  chill  the  lighted  air ;   they  draw  no  breath, 
And  cast  no  shadow  in  that  room  of  death. 

How  long  the  host  sits  spellbound,  none  may  know. 

His  stately  guests,  in  low  and  hollow  tones, 

Murmur  together  of  impending  woe  ; 

For  each  the  ill,  forerunning  news  bemoans. 

Their  feasting  done,  the  wan  assembly  all 

Rise,  mingle  and  move  round  the  feudal  hall. 

In  time,  the  Norseman,  clad  in  savage  guise, 
Glides  to  the  door  that,  untouched,  opens  wide. 
He,  at  the  threshold,  turns,  and  lets  his  eyes, 
Which  pierce  like  spears,  on  the  young  Laird  abide ; 
Then,  with  a  warning  gesture,  cries  "  Beware  !  " 
And  like  a  vapor  fades  in  outer  air. 

Thus  from  the  hall  the  vague  ghosts,  one  by  one, 
Slowly,  in  turn,  depart :    each  at  the  door 
Pauses,  and  facing,  as  the  first  had  done, 
The  rapt  beholder  and  the  light  once  more, 
With  look  and  hand  that  warn  from  direful  doom, 
Exclaims  "  Beware  !  "  and  vanishes  in  gloom. 

So  the  dream  ends ;    and  when  dawn,  cold  and  gray, 
Like  a  pale  ghost,  passed  through  its  halls  again, 
The  Laird  awoke,  and  would  not  sail  that  day 
For  the  dream's  sake :    and  it  was  well ;  for  then 


142  SCIENCE  AND   THE  SOUL. 

The  storm-tossed  boat  that  to  the  Islands  crossed 
Went  down  at  sea  and  all  on  board  were  lost. 


SCIENCE  AND  THE  SOUL. 

I  SOUGHT,  in  sleep,  to  find  the  mountain-lands 
Where  Science,  in  her  hall  of  wonder,  dwells. 
When  I  had  come  to  where  the  building  stands, 
I  found  refreshing  streams,  delightful  dells, 
Invigorating  air,  and  saw,  on  high. 
Turret  and  dome  against  the  boundless  sky. 

Out  of  her  busy  palace  then  she  stepped, 
And  kindly  greeted  me,  as  there  I  stood 
Doubting  my  right,  and  whether  I  had   slept. 
"  Welcome,"  she  said,  "  and  whatsoe'er  of  good 
You  find  in  me,  you  have  full  leave  to  take 
For  warp  and  woof  of  verses  that  you  make." 

That  these,  her  words,  for  more  than  me  were   meant, 
I  felt,  and  thanked  her  as  seemed  fitting  then ; 
While,  in  her  looks,  I  saw  that  she  was  sent 
To  lighten  work  and  knit  together  men ; 
And  that  with  patience  such  as  hers  could  be, 
The  coral  mason  builds  the  isles  at  sea. 

Servant  of  Use,  upon  that  mountain  wise 
Was  the  plain  title  she  was  proud  to  own, 
And,  clearer  than  her  penetrating  eyes, 
The  light  of  Progress  on  her  forehead  shone. 
Her  smile  the  lips'  sharp  coldness  half  betrayed, 
As  if  a  wreath  upon  a  sword  were  laid. 

But  now,  about  her  palace  everywhere, 
She  led  my  steps,  and  often   by  her  side 


SCIENCE  AND   THE  SOUL.  143 

A  lion  and  a  nimble  greyhound  were. 

The  swifter  to  a  leash  of  wire  she  tied, 

And  made  a  messenger  of  good  and  ill ; 

The  stronger  with  white  breath  performed  her  will. 

She  traced  the  lapse  of  awful  seas  of  time 
On  fossil  limestone  and  on  glinting  ore ; 
Described  wild  wonders  of  the  Arctic  clime, 
And  of  all  lands  her  willing  slaves  explore  ; 
Opened  laboratories  to  my  view, 
And  showed  me  much  that  she  could  skill  to  do. 

Then,  down  a  marble  stairway,  to  her  bower 
She  led  the  gracious  way.     "  And  here,"  said  she, 
"  I  meditate  beyond  the  midnight  hour ; 
Invent  for  peace  and  war,  for  land  and  sea ; 
Read  the  round  sky's  star-lettered  page,  or  grope 
In  the  abysses  of  the  microscope." 

But,  while  she  spoke,  there  stood  another  near  — 
The  fairest  one  that  ever  I  beheld  ; 
I  fancied  her  the  creature  of  some  sphere 
Whence  all  of  mist  and  shadow  are  dispelled. 
Her  voice  was  low  and  gentle,  and  her  grace 
Vied  with  the  beauty  of  her  thoughtful  face. 

A  clear,  unwaning  light  around  her  shone  — 
A  ray  of  splendor  from  a  loving  Source  — 
A  light  like  sunshine,  that,  when  it  is  gone, 
Leaves  darkness,  but  sheds  glory  on  its  course ; 
Yet,  in  my  dream,  her  footstep  made  me  start, 
It  was  so  like  the  beating  of  my  heart. 

I  turned  to  Science,  for  small  doubt  had  I 
That  she  best  knew  her  whom  I  deemed  so  fair, 
And  asked,   "  Who  is  she,  that  so  needfully 
Waits  on  you  here,  and  is  like  sunny  air  ? 


144  SCIENCE  AND   THE  SOUL. 

In  her  all  beauty  dwells,  while  from  her  shine 
Truth,  hope,  and  love,  with  effluence   divine." 

Then  Science  answered  me,  severe  and  cold : 
"  She  is  Tune's  brittle  toy :  the  praise  of  men 
Has  dazed  her  wit,  and  made  her  vain  and  bold. 
With  subtle  flattery  of  tongue  and  pen, 
They  title  her  the  Soul ;  I  count  it  blame, 
And  call  her  Life,  but  seek  a  better  name. 

"  Alone,  in  her  gray-celled   abode,  she  dwells, 
Of  fateful  circumstance  the  fettered  thrall, 
The  psychic  sum  of  forces  of  her  cells, 
Molecular  and  manifold  in  all ; 
But  aeons  passed  ere  Nature  could  express 
This  carbon-rooted  flower  of  consciousness. 

"  Life,  from  the  common  mother,  everywhere 
Springs  into  being  under  sun  and  dew ; 
And    it  may  be    that  she  who  is    so  fair 
From  deep-sea  ooze  to  this  perfection  grew, 
Evolving  slowly  on,  from  type  to  type, 
Until,  at  last,  the  earth  for  man  was  ripe. 

"But  like  a  low-born  child,  whose  fancy's  page 

Illuminated  glows,  she  fondly  dreams 

That  hers  is  other,  nobler  parentage ; 

That,  from  a  Source  Supreme,  her  being  streams; 

But,  when  I  ask  for  proof,  she  can  not  give 

One  word,  to  me,   of  knowledge   positive. 

"  Wherefore,  regretfully  I  turn  away, 

In  no  wise  profited,  to  let  her  muse 

On  her  delusion,  now  grown  old  and  gray. 

It  is  the  mirage  still,  that  she  pursues  — 

Some  image  of  herself,  against  the  sky, 

To  which  she  yearns  on  golden  wings  to  fly." 


THE  CITY  OF  DECAY.  145 

What  time  I  left  that  palace  high  and  wide, 
She  followed  me,  whom  I  had  thought  so  fair, 
To  guide  me  down  the  devious  mountain-side, 
Speaking  with  that  of  sorrow  in  her  air 
That  made  me  grieve,  and  soon  a  tear  I  shed 
To  think  that  here  she  is  so  limited. 

"  Oh,  I  am  life  and  more,  I  am  the  Soul," 
She  said,  "  and,  in  the  human  heart  and   brain, 
Sit  throned  and  prisoned  while  the  brief  years  roll, 
Lifted  with  hope  that  I  shall  live  again ; 
That  when  I  cross  the  flood,  with  me  shall  be 
The  swift-winged  carrier-dove  of  memory. 

"  I  shall  have  triumph  over  time  and   space, 

For  I  am  infinite  and  more  than  they. 

In  vain  has  Science  searched  my  dwelling-place; 

For,  delve  in  nature's  secrets  as  she  may 

For  deeper  knowledge,  she  can  never  know 

Of  what  I  am,  nor  whither  I  shall  go." 


THE  CITY  OF   DECAY. 


WHERE  a  river  and  a  highway 

Running  side  by  side  together, 
Lead  along  through  pleasant  queendoms 

To  a  peaceful,  ancient  town, 
Once  a  bent  and  wrinkled  Graybeard, 

Brave  and  true  in  every  weather, 
On  the  road  pursued  his  journey, 
Autumn's  fruitful  land  adown. 

He  had  left  Spring's  balmy  country, 

He  had  passed  through  that  of  Summer, 


146  TEE  CITY  OF  DECAY. 

And  through  Autumn's  bronze  dominion 

Was  advancing  on  his  way, 
When  a  bird  of  sweeping  pinion, 

To  the  kindly-hearted  comer, 
From  the  topmost  bough  of  knowledge 

Caroled  forth  a  welcome  lay. 

Dragging  from  this  boat  of  music 

His  close  net  of  recollection, 
Went  the  Graybeard's  thought,  regretting 

One  great   pearl  that  he  had  lost. 
He  beheld  again  the  country 

Ruled  by  Spring,  and  clear  reflection, 
In  his  spirit's  limpid  waters, 

Of  the  star-like  pearl  of  cost. 

Then  the  Truthsayer,  far-sighted, 

Found  the  long-sought  Graybeard  dreaming 
In  the  thoughtful,  wayside  shadow 

Of  the  vocal,  golden  tree  ; 
And  he  said  to  him,  "  O  brother, 

Would'st  thou  find  thy  pearl,  whose  seeming 
So  enchants  thy  soul  with  beauty 

That  thou  think' st  no  more  shall  be  ? 

"  In  the  ocean-bounded  city, 

Whither  thou  art  tending  surely, 
Undissolved  thy  pearl  awaits  thee 

By  the  darkly  silent  shore. 
Do  thine  alms-deeds ;  follow  mercy ; 

Hold  thy  hand  from  wrong  securely ; 
When  thy  pearl  again  elates  thee, 
Thou  shalt  have  it  ever  more." 

To  behold  the  Prophet  fully, 

Turned  the  traveler  sedately, 

Tho'  doubt  and  hope,  alternate, 

Were  reflected  in  his  face ; 


THE   CITY  OF  DECAY.  147 

But  the  Sayer  had  departed, 

And  the  other  wondered  greatly 
That  a  stranger,  kingly-hearted, 

Should  regard  him  aught  with  grace. 

All  one  way  the  folk  were  going, 
On  that  highway  by  the  river, 
In  their  journey  daily  nearing 

Rest  and  quiet  by  the  sea. 
Long  the  Graybeard  searched  among   them, 

With  his  thankful  lips  aquiver, 
For  the  Prophet  glad  and  cheering, 
Who  foretold  the  joy  to  be. 

But  he  found  him  not,   and  sadly 

Down  the  road  his  course  pursuing, 
Saw  the  wizened  leaves  whirled  madly 

And  bestrew  the  crystal  stream ; 
He  beheld  the  air-like  current 
Making  haste  to  its  undoing, 
And,  on  birds  that  dipped  and  skimmed  it, 
Watched  the  sunlight's  silver  gleam. 

Often  ships  of  cloud  sailed  over, 

With  their  wingy  canvas  lifted, 
Or  they  lay  becalmed  or  anchored 
In  the  portless,   circling  blue. 
In  a  small,  frail  shallop   nightly 

On  the   silent  stream  he  drifted, 
Till  bright  Lucifer   had  fallen, 

And  the  victor   drank  the  dew. 

Then  on  wakefulness  he   stranded, 

And  took  up  his  onward  journey, 
Thinking  deeply  of   the  promise 

That  so  graciously  was  made ; 
While  the  winds,  like  knights  of  terror, 

Round   him  whirled  in  joust  and  tourney ; 


148  THE    CITY   OF  DECAY. 

But  of  gusty  doubt  and  error 
His  belief  was  not  afraid. 

For  through  these  he  went  undaunted, 

And,  one  afternoon,  when  brightly 
Shone  the  sun,  by  clouds  unhaunted, 

At  his  feet  a  valley  lay. 
He   was  standing  on  a  hill-top, 

And  below  him,  wide  and  sightly, 
Where  the  river  cleft  the  sea-coast, 
Rose  the  City  of  Decay. 

Far  beyond  it,  black  and  silent 

Stretched  Oblivion's  deep  ocean 
Fog-confounded,  thick  and  waveless 

To  the  run  of  western  sky. 
Time's  replenished  river  emptied, 

With   a  never-ceasing  motion, 
Into  these  relentless  waters 
And  unfathomed  mystery. 

Often  vessels,  steered  by  Circe", 

Down  the  ebbing  river  sailing, 
Ventured  boldly  out,  and  vanished 

In  the  mute  deep's  heavy  gloom ; 
But  not  one  came  back,  or  wafted 

Sounds  of  laughter  or  of  wailing, 
From  Persephone  and  Pluto's 
Dimly-lighted  land  of  doom. 

Down  the  highway  to  the  city 

Came  the  Graybeard  through  the  valley, 
While  its  sunset  skies  were  glossy, 

And  approached  the  crumbling  wall. 
At  the  gateway,  high  and  mossy, 

Soon  he  paused,  his  strength  to  rally ; 
And  expectancy  allured  him 

With  the  joy  that  would  befall. 


THE   CITY  OF  DECAY.  149 

II. 

Wide  the  rusty  gates  stood  open, 

For  they  long  had  been  unguarded ; 
And  perforce  the  foot  would  enter, 

That  the  weary  road  had  come. 
In  the  passage,  half  imbedded 

Lay  the  heavy  bolts  discarded, 
And  therethrough  went  Echo,  wedded 
To  the  twilight  gray  and  dumb. 

Here  the  air  was  damp  and  chilly, 

And,  with  pencil  chaste  and  rimy, 
Drew  the  arabesques  of  Winter, 

On  the  stones  that  arched  the  way ; 
But  in  the  vast  metropolis 

The  walls  with  dew  were  slimy ; 
Tho'  it  was  the  land  of  Autumn, 
It  was  like  the  home  of  May. 

Tho'  the  border-hills  of  Winter 

To  the  city  were  adjacent, 
Up  the  dreary,  sullen  ocean 

Came  the  sultry,  panting  South; 
And  it  fawned  on  beldam  Ruin, 

That,  in  pride  of  dress  complacent, 
Sat  attired  in  grass  and  ivy, 

And  concealed  her  gaping  mouth. 

On  the  city  wall  grew  poppies 

Red  as  wine,  or  white  as  lilies ; 
And  so  drowsily  they  lifted 

Their  full  faces  to  the  sun, 
That  the  saffron-vested  robin, 

Proud,  erect — a  winged  Achilles  — 
Sang  no  more  with  wakeful  rapture 
As  he  in  the  spring  had  done. 


150  THE  CITY  OF  DECAY. 

In  the  city  dwelt  in  plenty, 

In  a  mansion  quaint  and  olden, 
One  who  was  a  lady  truly, 

For  she  doled  the  poor  her  bread. 
Gentle  charms  of  face  and  manner 

Hid  her  years  in  glamour  golden, 
And  her  hair  of  silver  brightened 
To  a  halo  round  her  head. 

She  was  once  superb  in  beauty, 

And  a  handsome  youth  true-hearted 
Had  desired  of  her  this  duty, 

That  she  love  him  all  his  years ; 
But  too  late  —  her  troth  was  plighted ; 

Yet  with  soft  regret  she  parted 
From  the  youth,  the  unrequited, 

Who  had  turned  away  with  tears. 

Now  her  husband  and  her  children 

Under  church-yard  turf  were  sleeping; 
She,  with  Kindness  to  attend  her, 

Down  life's  western  slope  made  way ; 
But  she  watched  the  couch  of  sickness, 

Calmed  the  bitter  voice  of  weeping, 
And  enlarged  the  paths  of  mercy 
In  the  City  of  Decay. 

Haply  hearing  of  her  goodness, 
That  it  was  a  potent  essence 
To  revive  the  weary  stranger, 

Or  to  heal  misfortune's  sting, 
The  Graybeard  sought  her  dwelling-house, 

And,  standing  in  her  presence, 
The  diminished  star  discovered, 

Whose  full  orb  he  loved  in  Spring. 

Having  given  his  name,  he  briefly 
Sketched  their  early,  tender  meeting, 


THE  CITY  OF  DECAY.  151 

And  the  after-years  —  these  chiefly 

For  the  star's  projected  beam. 
The  woman  smiled,  and  took  his  hand 

With  kindly  words  of  greeting ; 
Her  eyes  were  memory-vistas, 

And  love  was  like  a  dream. 

Then  he  told  her  of  the  wonder, 

Long  in  Summer  his  possession, 
That  had  slipped  from  him  asunder 

Into  Time's  elusive  tide ; 
And  anon  of  that  Truthsayer 

Who  had  warned  him  from  transgression, 
And  who  promised  that  the  jewel 
With  its  owner  should  abide. 

Glad  the  woman  was,  and  said  she, 

"  Whatsoe'er  my  friendship  chooses, 
That  it  likes  to  do  —  would  aid  thee 

Till  thy  perfect  joy  thou  find. 
He  achieves  no  Alpine  summit, 

Who  to  take  stout  help  refuses ; 
And  not  yet  have  line  and  plummet 

Gauged  the  sea-depths  of  the  mind. 

"  Come,  Kindness,  near,  and  speak  him  fair, 

That  once  was  my  true  lover, 
And,  up  and  down  this  crumbling  town, 

Assist  him  in  his  quest. 
Search  thou  with  him,  rising  early, 

Till,  at  last,  he  shall  discover 
That  great  virtue  pure  and  pearly, 
Which  aforetime  he  possessed." 

So  with  soothing  hand  came  Kindness, 

And  reposed  it  on  his  shoulder  ; 
But  he  dazedly,  as  with  blindness, 
Pressed  his  palm  upon  his  brow, 


152  THE   CITY  OF  DECAY. 

And  bethought  him  of  his  sister, 

Who  to  memory  seemed  older  — 
A  beloved  and  holy  maiden 

That  abode  in  heaven  now. 

The  woman  spoke :    "  Across  the  way, 

There  stands  a  monastery, 
Where,  within  a  darksome  cloister, 
Dwells  an  abbot  sad  and  pale. 
I  know  him  well ;  he  lives  alone ; 

But  many  folk,  once  merry, 
To  have  him  pray  their  sins  away 
His  heavy  doors  assail. 

"  Bide  thou  with  him  hereafter  ; 
For  I  shall  reward  him  freely. 
But  to-night  he  shares  our  table ; 
Nay,  he  even  now  is  here  ! " 
Thereat,  the  abbot  entered. 

And  his  restless  eyes  and  steely 
On  the  woman  quickly  centered ; 

But  she  gave  him  gracious  cheer. 

Low  his  monkish  garb  depended 

With  a  cross  and  beaded  cable. 
As  if  but  his  cowl  offended, 

He  removed  it  from  his  head. 
The  abundant,  girdled  habit 

Heightened  whitely,  with  its  sable, 
His  dull,  hollow-cheeked   pallor ; 
But  his  lips  were  full  and  red. 

The  Graybeard,  bowing  coldly, 

Touched  the  abbot's  hand  extended, 

And,  beside  the  board,  more  boldly 

Showed  his  liking  scant  and  small ; 

But  when  rising  for  departure, 

He  was  to  the  monk  commended ; 


THE  CITY  OF  DECAY.  153 

And  they  crossed  the  street,  and  lingered 
In  the  monastery  hall. 

Seated  here  beneath  the  flicker 

Of  a  lamp  hung  from   the  ceiling, 
Said  the  abbot,  "  Worthy  senior, 

Doth  thy  heart  not  know  me  yet  ? 
Hast  forgot?     Thou  thought'st  me  sainted, 

In  the  wayside  shadow  kneeling : 
Who  with  me  is  unacquainted, 
Seeing  that  I  am  Regret  ?  " 

Past  midnight  lone,  the  guest  was  shown 

Where  he  might  sleep  and  slumber, 
As,  on  before,  the  abbot  bore 

A  bronze,  Pompeian  lamp. 
The  Graybeard  saw  long  rows  of  lore 

The  echoing  halls  encumber, 
And,  on  windows  mediaeval, 

Heavy  night-dew  trickle  damp. 

Thenceforth  he  scarce  elected 

To  behold   the  monk,  who,  hidden 
In  his  cell,  with  soul  dejected, 

Brooded  palely  on  the  past. 
There  was  a  trusty  servitor 

That  took  him  food  when   bidden, 
And  the  guest's  lone  board  replenished 
With  profusion  to  the  last. 

But  that  night  the  Graybeard's  spirit 

Anchored  in  the  Indian  Ocean, 
Off  the  oystered  coast  of  Ceylon, 

Where,  with  sudden  plash  and  swirl, 
Swarthy  divers  darted  under ; 

And,  with  weltering  commotion, 
From  the  breathless  fields  of  wonder 
Brought  the  harvest  of  a  pearl. 


154  THE  CITY  OF  DECAY. 

m. 

Early  service  swift  to  render, 

Came  the  woman's  placid  maiden, 
And  led  on  through  morning  splendor 

To  a  ruin  old  and  gray. 
It  was  of  an  arch,  or  grotto, 

That,  with  heavy  mosses  laden, 
High  upon  it  bore  the  motto, 
Only  truth  shall  not  decay. 

Near  the  arch  had  stood  a  temple 

Where  an  oracle  was  spoken 
On  the  wave  of  truth  men  worshiped 

For  a  meaning  all  their  own. 
Now  about  the  sward  they  dented 
Lay  the  fluted  columns  broken, 
And  the  thought  they  represented    . 
Was  as  mythic  error  known. 

Each  belief  is  truth  most  holy 

To  the  holder  —  is  eternal  — 
Tho'  beliefs  are  birds  that  slowly 

Hatch  their  broods  and  fly  away. 
Ammon,  Isis,  Auramuzda, 

Jove  and  all  the  gods  supernal, 
Had  the  ruins  of  their  altars 
In  the  City  of  Decay. 

Carefully  round  arch  and  column 

That  had  been  to  Truth  erected, 
Went  the  Graybeard,  meekly  solemn, 

Seeking  out  his  one  desire. 
He  had  fondly  hoped  to  find  it, 

By  the  love  of  Truth  protected, 
Somewhere  hidden  here,  denuded 
Of  the  restless  river's  mire. 


THE  CITY  OF  DECAY.  155 

But  it  had  his  search  eluded, 

And  from  that  sad  place  he  wended 
Through  a  street  of  tombs  and  willows, 

Nor  believed  the  jewel  there ; 
Tho'  far  and  wide  on  either  side 

The  monuments  extended, 
And  birds  with  heaven  flooded  sweet 
The  unregretful  air. 

Ruined  castles  slowly  crumbled 

Here  and  there  within  the  city ; 
Their  high  battlements  had  tumbled, 

And  their  grassy  moats  were  dry. 
Gone  every  knight  and  lady  dight, 
For  no  more  the  love-lorn  ditty 
Rose  beneath  the  listening  window, 
In  the  moon's  enamored  eye. 

There  have  been,  in  Spain,  great  castles 

Of  the  nimble  mason-wizard 
That,  with  neither  square  nor  plumb-line, 

Ever  rears  a  chinkless  wall. 
Once  as  great  were  these  now  broken, 

Where  abode  the  bat  and  lizard, 
And  where  just  a  word,  loud  spoken, 
Sometimes  caused  a  tower  to  fall. 

Haply,  Kindness  and  the  Graybeard 

Reached  a  magic  castle  olden, 
That  was  standing  draped  with  ivy 
Like  a  goddess  with  her  hair ; 
But  the  cross-barred  gate  of  iron, 

All  so  rustily  was  holden, 
That  they  pushed  it  down,  and  wandered 
Through  the   stillness  lone  and  bare. 

From  the  ample  space  allotted 

Towered  the  thick  walls  skyward  grandly, 


156  THE   CITY  OF  DECAY. 

Tho'  the  floors  and  roof  had  rotted, 
And  in  dust  had  disappeared. 

Overhead  a  light  cloud  drifted, 
And   an  owlet,  resting  blandly 

In  the  shade,  to  where  it  shifted, 
Nestled  closer,  as  they  neared. 

That  this  dusky  bird  Minervan 

On  the   corbel-mask  was  perching, 
Now  the  Graybeard  thought  an  omen 

That  herein  his  quest  would  end ; 
And  his   hope  would  fain  accord  him 

That  the  castle  they  were  searching, 
Or  one  like  it,  must  reward  him, 
And  his  master-wish  befriend. 

For  he  knew  that  in  the  ruins 

Of  men's  high  anticipations 
There  are  pearls  of  greatest  moment 

Found  in  wiser  after-years ; 
But  no  joy  for  his  anointment 

Here  was  vased,  and  sad  libations 
Poured  he  out  to  disappointment, 

From  the  brimming  cup  of  tears. 

Kindness,  quick  to  calm  and  cherish, 
Homeward  then  his  steps  directed, 
Shunning  streets  where  daily  perish 

Hopes  of  wealth  and  high  renown. 
But  her  words,  that  sweetly  fluttered, 

Told  him  of  a  world  affected 
By  the  influence  that  uttered 

From  the  portals  of  the  town. 

As  the   sun  his  blue  path  travels, 

Highest  minaret  and  steeple 
Toward  him  lean ;  the  sweet  bud  ravels 
Into  flower,  and  toward  him  blows; 


THE   CITY  OF  DECAY.  157 

And  throughout  the  ages  hoary 
Have  the   ever-restless  people, 
Westering  and  migratory, 

Followed  his  unfading  rose. 

To  this  wide-spread  sunset  city 

Thus  are  drawn   the  generations ; 
Youth,  and  middle-age,   and  ancient 

Hither  stream  in  swerveless  tides. 
Here  life  centers ;   gay  youth  enters 

Crowned  with  Spring's  associations ; 
But  decrepitude,  so  childish, 
Often  longest  here  abides. 

While  true  Kindness  thus  was  talking 

To  her  charge,  they  passed  by  slowly 
Thronging  counter-currents  walking 

In  the  sunny,  spacious  way. 
He,  with  alms-deeds  oft  appeasing 

Want  with  palm  outstretched  and  lowly, 
Found  its  gratitude  as  pleasing 
As  violets  are  in  May. 

IV. 

The  Lady  and  the  Graybeard, 

Drawn   by  horses  black  and  prancing, 
Down  the  morning-streeted  valley, 
Rode  to  Retrospection's  halls. 
There  was  not  a  court  or  alley 

Where  the  dancing  sunbeams,   glancing, 
Lighted  not  unfading  pictures 
Hung  upon  interior  walls. 

Everywhere,  in  grandeur  dusky, 

Rose,  to  Retrospection  builded, 
Palaces  with  hinges  husky 

Opening  backward  in  review  — 


158  THE  CITY  OF  DECAY. 

Lofty  halls  like  Spain's  Alhambra, 

Ceiled  with  frost-work  forms,  and  gilded 
Buildings  like  the  Doge's  Palace, 

Glassed  in  depths  of  dreamy  blue. 

All  faced  one  way  ;  all  looked  eastward 

Up  the  road,  and  up  the  river, 
Peering  over  roof  and  ruin 

Into   Summer's  land  and  Spring's. 
Some  by  fountains  were  surrounded, 
In  whose  crystal  toss  and  quiver 
Humming-bird-like  sheen  abounded, 

Burnished  blue  and  twinkling  wings. 

There  in  grass  the  long-thighed  hopper 

Clicked  his  castanets  in  measure, 
An  unrecognized  Tithonus, 

And  old,  crabbed  Pantaloon; 
While  the  almond-tree  in  blossom 

Dropped  its  snowy  petal-treasure, 
And  the  windows  of  the  buildings 

Dimmed  and  darkened  all  too  soon. 

The  abodes  of  Retrospection 
Separately  were  divided  ; 
Like  the  Cretan  Labyrinthus 

They  were  doored  from  hall  to  hall; 
But  no  artful  terror  thundered, 

Nor  were  prisoners  there  misguided ; 
For  to  each  his  rooms  were  secret, 
But  he  knew  them  scarcely  all. 

Of  these  palaces,  the  pictures 
Bore  one  master  artist's  fecit ; 

For  the   Angelo  of  Memory, 
Whose  brush  is  never  still, 

Did  the  work  alone,  and  daily 
His  delight  was  to  increase  it, 


THE  CITY  OF  DECAY.  159 

Till  of  spaces  left  in  places 

None  remained  for  him  to  fill. 

When  from  halls  deceased  a  tenant, 
He  would  take  his  painted  story 
On  his  starry  journey  with  him, 

To  declare  his  place  and  age  ; 
But  History,  backward  glancing, 

With  her  stylus  dipped  in  glory, 
Likenessed  all  the  greater  pictures 
On  her  scant  but  deathless  page. 

Many  deeds  of  noble  daring 
And  of  patient  self-denial, 
That  alone  were  worth  the  caring, 
In  what  yet  was  left  to  tell, 
Survived  the  heel  of  silence, 

Cheered  the  world  in  every  trial, 
And  of  Love's  broad  ocean  murmured 
In  Expression's  rhythmic  shell. 

Having  briefly  on  their  way  fared, 

To  a  House  of  Retrospection 
Came  the  Lady  and  the  Graybeard, 

Where,  to  old-time  words,  the  door 
Opened  for  them ;   and  they  wandered 
Through  the  halls  in  each  direction, 
And,  before  the  canvas,  pondered 
On  its  reminiscent  store. 

Lighted  corridors  retreating, 

Through  the  woman's  past  descended ; 
And  their  calm  research  completing, 

Saving  that  of  but  a  few, 
She  would  not  stay,  but  turned  away 

With  him  that  she  befriended, 
Knowing  well  his  spirit's  compass 

Had  to  Heaven  and  her  been  true. 


160  THE   CITY  OF  DECAY. 

For  he  led  her  through  his  smiling 

Halls  of  manhood,  now  resounding 
To  their  footfalls  on  the  tiling, 

Where  lay  hroken  cups  of  joy. 
In  pictures  wide,  on  either  side, 

His  life  arose,  abounding 
In  the  painter's  richest  colors, 

Which  the  grave  can  not  destroy. 

When   day   with  his  life-giving  torch 

Was  to  the  sea  descending, 
Came  out  upon  the  building's  porch 
The  wand'rers  sere  and  gray ; 
Then  as  heavy-uddered  cloud-herds, 

Trampling  loudly,  were  impending, 
Homeward  hied  the  couple  quickly, 
Down  the  dream-dispelling  way. 

Against  the  west  the  clouds  up-pressed 

In  blackly  moving  ledges, 
But  in  a  rift  that  seemed  to  lift 

A  splendid  rainbow  shone. 
This  climbed  and  kissed  an  ebon  mist 

High  up  with  pallid  edges, 
Toward  whose  craggy  shore  a  vessel, 
The  freightless  moon,  was  blown. 

Soon  the  crystal  keel  encountered 

Its  mirk  doom,  and  crashing,  sinking, 
Left  the  sky  to  darkness  dreary 

Pierced  by  lightning,  wind,  and  rain; 
Yet  that  night  the  Graybeard  weary, 
In  his  sleep's  disordered  thinking, 
Deemed  the  vanished  moon  the  jewel 
He  was  seeking  to  regain. 

Through  the  hopeless  night  and  morrow 
Poured  the  gray  rain  sobbing,  sighing, 


THE  CITY  OF  DECAY.  161 

While  its  gusty  breath  of  sorrow 

Tossed  the  dead  leaves  to  and  fro. 

Looked  the  Graybeard  from  the  casement 
On  the  leaves  and  rain-drops  flying, 

And  a  wind  of  self-abasement 

Through  his  spirit  seemed  to  blow. 

She  to  whom  he  was  beholden 

Sent  him  fruit  for  toothsome  pleasure, 
Apples  crimson,  apples  golden, 

Ripe  as  Juno's  and  as  sweet. 
Truths  he  thought  them  ;   Kindness  brought  them, 

And,  with  hope  of  his  lost  treasure, 
Sunned  away  his  rainy  feelings, 
Seated  humbly  at  his  feet. 

v. 

The  defeated  clouds  retreated, 

And  the  flushed,  exultant  morning, 
With  shields  that  shone  and  banners  blown, 

Advanced  above  the  hill. 
And  divine,  reviving  roses, 
The  metropolis  adorning, 
Looked  up  to  greet  the  victor, 

Sweet  with  fragrance  they  distil. 

The  Lady  and  the  Graybeard, 

Urged  by  Kindness,  their  attendant, 
Rode  to  see  the  lofty  palace 

Where  the  Emperor  abode  ; 
For  Decay  was  chief  of  cities 

That  upon  him  were  dependent, 
And  within  its  grassy  quiet 

His  unfailing  bounty  flowed. 

"  Gray  Time,  the  Emperor,  lately, 
To  display  his  might  and  splendor, 


162  THE  CITY  OF  DECAY. 

Has  proclaimed  a  triumph  stately," 
Said  the  Lady  to  her  guest. 

"  Vast  his  recent  conquests  tragic ; 
But,  as  did  the  witch  of  Endor, 

He  will  raise  the  dead  by  magic 
From  their  melancholy  rest. 

"He  will  break  their  vaulted  slumber, 

Bring  again  their  absent  features, 
And  advance  their  sea-sand  number 

In  diversified  array. 
Them,  that  erst  were  his  possession, 
He  will  show  to  us,  his  creatures, 
And  re-lead  them  in  procession 
Through  his  capital,  Decay. 

"  He,  besides  bis  scion,  Winter, 

Has  three  pure  and  loving  daughters : 
Proud,  bright-eyed,  fruit-bosomed  Autumn, 

Summer  dark  with  sun  and  dew, 
And  young  Spring  with  eyes  of  blue. 

These,  along  the  ebbing  waters, 
He  has  given  each  a  country 

Good  to  dwell  in,  fair  to  view. 

"  No  Lear  he  among  his  children ; 

He  is  yet  their  ruler  rigid. 
Tho'  at  times  they  seem  to  brave  it, 
They  his  will  have  aye  obeyed. 
Its  still  chains  with  might  environ 

And  constrain  the  kingdom  frigid ; 
For  his  scepter  is  of  iron, 

Tho'  with  velvet  softness  swayed." 

On  the  way,  the  simple  Graybeard 

Cheered  his  tender  heart  with  flowers, 
Whose  rare  beauty  rose  exultant 

From  the  black  and  humid  soil. 


THE  CITY  OF  DECAY.  163 

Dark  decay  is  beauty's  mother ; 

And  the  daughter  turns  to  bowers, 
Ruins  gray,  and  decks  their  towers 
With  a  tendril-twining  toil. 

Every  form  is  matter's  dwelling, 
And,  as  soon  as  one  is  wasted, 
From  decay  another  rises. 

Changing  like  the  forms  of  truth 
Matter  round  the  bent  world  wanders ; 

It  of  every  joy  has  tasted, 
Finding  in  decay  renewal, 

And  the  fresh  delights  of  youth. 

Through  the  city,  in  profusion, 

Danced,  on  wings  like  flakes  of  color 
From  the  painter  Nature's  palette, 

Nectar-fed  gay  butterflies. 
Even  a  woodland  fairy-ballet 

To  the  sight  were  less  and  duller ; 
For  the  hue  of  their  seclusion 
Is  the  fairies'  only  guise. 

On  the  faithful  Graybeard  brightly 

Burst  the  view  of  Time's  great  palace, 
In  the  distance  rising  lightly 

From  the  hill's  enameled  crest. 
Arm-high,  near  the  site  commanding, 

Every  lily  raised  its  chalice, 
As  if  at  a  banquet  standing 
In  the  honor  of  a  guest. 

Somewhat  like  the  regal  dwelling 
That  enroofs  the  crowned  Castilian, 

And  is  life  to  sunny  Madrid, 

The  impassioned  heart  of  Spain, 

Stood  the  Emperor's  white  palace 
Hung  with  banners  of  vermilion, 


164  THE  CITY  OF  DECAY. 

And  a  clock-tower  rose  amidst  it, 
With  a  bell  of  solemn  strain. 

In  a  meadow  near  the  ocean 

Trod  an  old  man  mowing,  swaying 
With  the  keen  scythe's  crescent  motion, 

As  he  laid  the  long  years  low. 
In  the  stable  where  he  shut  them 

Stood  the  sun's  black  horses,  neighing 
For  the  provender  he  cut  them, 

Which  not  otherwhere  would  grow. 

Like  the  Halls  of  Retrospection, 

Facing  mornward,  up  the  river, 
Stood  the  palace,  and  behind  it 
Ran  the  city's  mighty  wall. 
This  with  towers  and  bastions  bristled; 

But  no  soldier  emptied  quiver 
While  its  barbed  death  sped  and  whistled, 
When  a  tower  would  sway  and  fall. 

Where  it  fell,  it  formed  a  passage 

For  the  troops  of  vegetation 
To  attack  the  standing  rampart 

With  triumphant  shields  and  spears. 
Kindness  and  the  Graybeard  clambered 

Over  debris  to  a  station 
On  the  wall,  and  wide  before  them 
Lay  the  city  worn  with  years. 

Far  as  the  eye  could  aught  descry, 

The  town  stretched,  quilted,  seamy, 
Toward  Winter's  star ;  and  eastward  far, 

With  pagan,  pillared  fanes. 
The  castle  towers  and  palaces 

Hung  in  the  distance  dreamy, 
And  ancient  baths  and  aqueducts 
Were  traced  in  arched  remains. 


THE   CITY  OF  DECAY.  165 

Along  Time's  hill,  which  bordered 
On  the  ocean  black  and  lonely, 
The  high  wall  ran  whereon  the  man 

And  Kindness  gazed  around. 
Far  below  them,  on  the  waters 

That  were  gloom  and  silence  only, 
Lay  a  twilight  that  to  midnight 

Deepened  westward,  vapor-bound. 

i 

VI. 

On  another  day  came  Kindness 

With  the  Graybeard,  and,  descending 
To  the  dismalest  of  beaches, 

By  the  dark  sea  walked  a  while. 
In  the  shallow,  marshy  reaches, 

Where  white  ibises  were  bending, 
Grew  the  lotus  and  papyrus 

That  have  vanished  from  the  Nile. 

In  the  hillside  steep  and  rocky, 

Vined  with  paths  of  deep  reflection, 
Countless  tombs  were  hewed,  whose  mummies 

Were  in  life  to  Horus  true. 
He,  to  perished  lives  he  cherished, 

Brought  fresh  bloom  and  resurrection, 
Son  of  Hathor,  golden  goddess 

Of  the  heavens  soft  and  blue. 

Egypt  thought  that,  with  life  brutal, 
Souls  departed  were  encumbered ; 
But  again  they  would  be  human, 
After  three  millenniums  fled. 
With  their  self-renewing  beetles, 

Long  the  mummies  here  had  slumbered, 
And  beyond  the  time  appointed  ; 

Yet  they  woke  not  from  the  dead. 


166  THE   CITY  OF  DECAY. 

As  if  tomb  or  beach  enshrined  it, 

Sought  the  Graybeard  for  his  jewel. 
He  was  sure  that  he  would  find  it 
By  the  dateless,  dusky  shore ; 
For  his  failures  ever  straightway 

Gave  his  flame  of  hope  new  fuel; 
Yet  he  clambered  to  a  gateway, 
Unrewarded  as  before. 

• 

On  the  arch  an  unknown  motto, 

In  the  weedy  stones  and  rotten, 
Was  engraved,  and  gave  its  token 

To  the  blind  and  voiceless  deep ; 
While  inside  this  coastern  entrance, 

Busts  of  great  men  long  forgotten, 
And  their  statues,  marred  and   broken, 
Lay  unvalued  on  the  steep. 

But  behind  the  stagnant  ocean 

Glowed  bright-arrowed  day,  declining ; 
Yet  no  shaft  of  all  his  splendor 

Pierced  the  dull  deep's  mail  of  night. 
All  the  city  towers,  like  tapers, 

With  his  level  rays  were  shining; 
But  the  waters  and  their  vapors 
Were  the  darker  for  the  light. 

On  the  coast  the  wall  was  weakest, 

Holding  up  a  slight  resistance ; 
For  a  tidal-wave  incoming, 

At  a  blow,  had  dashed  it  down. 
But  it  showed  the  thin  partition, 
And  how  perilous  the  distance 
Between  dead  inanition 

And  the  retrospective  town. 


THE   CITY  OF  DECAY.  167 

vn. 

With  his  lovable  companion 

Went  the  Graybeard  on  the  morrow, 
Toward  the  quay  along  the  river, 

And  the  rotting,  wooden  piers. 
He  was  swiftly  growing  older, 

And  her  strength  he  had  to  borrow ; 
For  he  leaned  upon  her  shoulder 

With  the  trembling  weight  of  years. 

It  was  beautiful  to  see  them 

As  they  through  the  old  streets  wended. 
Her  eyes  were  mild,  and  when  she  smiled 

Some  heart  with  joy  was  filled. 
She  was  fair,  and  her  complexion 

With  the  open  lily  blended  ; 
But  her  words  set  roses  blooming, 
And  the  raging  tempest  stilled. 

Many  a  time  some  mildewed    building, 

Bat-frequented,  long  neglected, 
Would,  with  sunken  roof  and  doorway, 

Fall  across  the  empty  street. 
On  the  mound  it  thus  erected 

Outlaw  briers  and  weeds  collected, 
To  cut  and  try  the  passers-by, 
And  often  cause  retreat. 

But  from  out  a  lofty  gateway 

Of  the  wall  beside  the  river, 
Came  the  gentle  couple  straightway 
To  their  quest  along  the  quay. 
They  beheld  the  dead  leaves,  drifting 

In  the  black,  thick  water,  quiver 
And  eddy  near  some  slimy  pier, 
To  ebb  away  to  sea. 


168  THE   CITY  OF  DECAY. 

All  the  commerce  was  departed ; 
And  tho'  deeply  laden  vessels 
On  the  wide,  straight  river  started, 

To  discargo  at  the  town, 
Few  arrived  to  cheer  and  richen  ; 

None  the  tempest  longer  wrestles ; 
For  all  lie  half-sunk,  unpitchen, 

By  the  piers,  and  there  go  down. 

Patiently  the  Graybeard  hunted 

For  his  mystic  pearl  delightful. 
On  pier  and  hulk  and  round  each  bulk 

He  looked  to  see  its  gleam. 
For  he  fancied,  as  he  sought  it, 

That  for  him,  the  owner  rightful, 
Some  kind  riverman  had  brought  it, 
Having  found  it  in  the  stream. 

Baffled  still,  the  Graybeard  lifted 

His  calm  eyes  to  scan  the  distance, 
And  a  bulged  sail  growing  larger 

Watched  till  it  beside  him  moored. 
Men  make  faith  of  what  is  hoped  for ; 

And,  that  his  foot-sore  persistence 
Soon  would  clutch  the  gem  it  groped  for, 
By  his  faith  he  was  assured. 

Forthwith  went  he  toward  the  master, 

Who  upon  the  prow  was  standing, 
And  exclaimed,  with  heart-beats  faster, 

"  Tell  me  of  my  pearl,  long  lost !  " 
Then  the  other,  as  a  brother, 

To  the  Graybeard  on  the  landing 
Kindly  said,  "  Describe  this  jewel, 
Which  must  be  of  heavy  cost." 

When  the  Graybeard  had  outlined  it, 
As  he  might  some  fading  vision, 


THE  CITY  OF  DECAY.  169 

He  whom  he  besought  to  find  it 

Blankly  stared,  as  in  a  swound. 
"  Vain  is  search,"  he  answered  slowly ; 

"  Yet,  within  my  thought  elysian, 
One  abides  whose  name  is  holy ; 

She  a  pearl  like  yours  had  found. 

"She  the  winsome  jewel  lost  not; 

In  my  heart  she  has  it  ever ; 
Only  there  can  I  restore  it ; 

She  who  wore  it  was  my  bride. 
Woe  befell  me :  bride  and  jewel, 

In  the  swift,  onflowing  river, 
In  the  silence  cold  and  cruel, 

Sank,  in  darkness,  from  my  side. 

"  She  was  hurried  to  the  waters 

Where  the  dream  called  life  forsakes  us  — 
Dream,  or  glimpse,  that  Nature  gives  us 

Of  her  many-featured  face. 
To  the  sea  she  sweeps  the  nations  ; 

Thence  she  brought  us,  thither   takes  us, 
And  we  lose  the  limitations, 
Time,  causality,  and  space. 

"  More  we  see  not,  nor  this  plainly ; 
For  our  knowledge  here  is  blinded, 
And  it  gropes  and  searches  vainly 
Out  beyond  life's  final  breath. 
Doubt  not  of  it  we  shall  profit, 

Tho'  the  creeds  were  other  minded, 
If  it  be  a  fact  in   nature 

That  the  soul  lives  after  death." 

Oh !   never  more  along  that  shore 

This  riverman  went  sailing. 
No  breeze  might  waft  his  wingless  craft, 
That  all  dismantled  lay. 


170  THE  CITY  OF  DECAY. 

Nor  was  he  met  thereafter 

By  the  Graybeard,  who,  fast  failing, 
Deemed  the  quest  was  unavailing 
In  the  City  of  Decay. 

,       vm. 

Day  by  day  the  Graybeard  wasted, 
Scarce  from  his  apartment  going, 
Till  he  turned  from  food  untasted, 

And  lay  ridden  on  his  bed. 
Kindness  and  her  friend,  intently 

To  his  care  themselves  bestowing, 
Smoothed  his  patient  pillow  gently, 

And  their  comforts  round  him  spread. 

But  when,  like  May,  the  triumph  day 

Came  balmy-aired  and  splendid, 
They  moved  him  to  a  broader  view, 

And  swung  the  window  wide. 
To  every  space  the  populace 

Their  waiting  sea  extended, 
And  by-streets  nigh  and  housetops  high 
Were  blackened  with  its  tide. 

Down  the  way  came  heralds  riding, 

Through  their  silver  trumpets  crying, 
"  Time  is  passing  !     Time  is  gliding  ! 

Live  the  Emperor  !     He  is  here  !  " 
Countless  pretty  baby  children, 

Laughing,  sighing,  running,  flying, 
Led  the  pageant ;  while  sweet  music 
From  a  distance  charmed  the  ear. 

Naked  were  the  infant  Moments, 

But  with  fruit-tree  blossoms  belted, 
That  were  ever  snowing  petals 

And  bestrewing  all  die  ground. 


THE   CITY  OF  DECAY.  171 

Then  came  lissome  older  children, 
By  the  flying  blossoms  pelted  — 
Graceful  Hours,  and  twelve  were  rosy ; 

Twelve,  dark-veiled,  with  stars  were  crowned. 

Then  the  Days  came,  budding  maidens : 
They  had  hair  of  morning  brightness, 
And  about  with  night  were  skirted ; 

Some  Days  dark  and  others  fair. 
At  their  heels  the  Months  close  followed: 

In  their  steps  was  less  of  lightness  ; 
On  her  arm  a  shield  of  silver 

Each  Month  lifted  high  in  air. 

Spring  came  smiling,  showered  with  praises, 

Crowned  with  violets  and  arbutus, 
Robed  in  woven  flowers  and  fragrance, 

Crocuses,  anemones, 
Tulips,  hyacinths,  and  lilacs, 

More  than  all  the  wealth  of  Plutus ; 
And  of  marigolds  and  daisies 

Hung  her  tunic  to  her  knees. 

Round  her  flew  the  birds,  and  uttered 

Her  full  soul  in  warbled  wooing: 
All  her  blossomed  promise  fluttered 

With  the  blithe  surprise  of  song. 
Fell  her  hair  of  gold  supernal 

To  her  feet ;    their  touch  renewing 
Waking  Love,  whose  laughter  vernal 
Followed  after  and  along. 

Swarthy  Summer  was  next  comer : 

Dowered  with  beauty  Cleopatran, 
Fervid,  full  of  storms  and  sunshine, 

And  with  bosom  deep  and  round. 
Like  a  ruby  shone  the  dog-star 

On  the  forehead  of  the  matron, 


172  THE  CITY  OF  DECAY. 

While  her  gown,  her  form  revealing, 
Trailed  with  roses  on  the  ground. 

With  a  sickle  for  a  scepter 

Autumn  followed,  luscious,  mellow, 
On  vines  that  groaned  and  sheaves  enthroned, 

And  under  boughs  of  fruit. 
Loud  the  flail  announced  her  progress, 

Thudding  on  her  grainy  yeflow, 
While  her  sober  verdure  lightened 
To  a  gold  and  crimson  suit. 

Winter  came  with  freezing  bluster, 

In  an  icy  chariot  riding, 
Drawn  by  northern,  snowy  horses, 

Each  with  long  and  streaming  mane. 
Crowned  with  icicles  whose  luster 
Sparkled,  he,  in  ermine  hiding, 
Sat  and  frowned,  his  body  palsied 
By  his  breath's  benumbing  pain. 

But  the  Graybeard  paled  and  shivered 
In  the  breath  so  sharp  and  stinging, 
Like  a  clinging  leaf  that  quivered 

In  December  on  a  tree. 
He  could  feel  the  years  encroaching ; 

He  could  hear  far,  sweet  bells  ringing, 
And  the  Emperor,  approaching 
With  his  horses,  he  did  see. 

These,  in  maned  and  fiery  splendor, 

Never  man  beheld  correctly; 
For  inadequate  and  tender 

Is  the  eye,  and  deemed  them  black. 
They  the  sun-god's  were,  and  coldly 

Glanced  at  Winter  indirectly ; 
But  they  drew  the  monarch  boldly, 

With  the  scythe  hung  down  his  back. 


THE   CITY   OF  DECAY.  173 

Of  him  heedless,  scant  devotion 

House  or  street  would  show  this  mower 
Of  the  meadow  by  the  ocean, 

For  his  passing  won  no  cheers  ; 
Yet  his  chariot  resplendent, 

Moving  faster,  never  slower, 
Scattered  blessings,  some  transcendent, 
From  its  stopless  wheels  of  years. 

The  Emperor,  tall  and  meager, 

Had  a  forelock  thin  and  snowy, 
Of  which  the  bold  have  taken  hold, 

And  gained  the  thing  they  would. 
He  wore  no  crown ;  his  scepter 

Was  a  clock-hand  gilt  and  showy ; 
And  the  sands  he  held  were  running 
Toward  the  promised  Age  of  Good. 

In  the  chariot,  with  the  ruler, 

Rode  three  stated  creatures  duly  : 
One,  the  woman,  was  his  consort, 

And  was  of  divinest  mold. 
Of  her  lord  she  much  demanded, 

Tho'  she  loved  that  niggard  truly ; 
But,  with  folly  open-handed, 
Spent  his  momentary  gold. 

She  was  Life,  and  gave  the  lowest 

Often  overflowing  measure, 
While  withholding  from  the  dearest 

What  she  spared  to  bird  and  beast. 
In  her  hand  she  held  her  goblet, 

Bitter-sweet  with  pain  and  pleasure, 
Quaffed  with  bacchic  joy  by  matter 
At  the  outset  in  the  East. 

She  the  Graybeard  at  the  window 

Saw,  and  toward  him  reached  the  chalice, 


174  THE   CITY  OF  DECAY. 

Smiling  on  him  with  a  glory 

That  outbeamed  the  light  around ; 
But  the  figure  like  a  shadow, 

Hooded,  mantled  —  as  in  malice  — 
In  the  splendid  chariot  riding  — 

Dashed  the  goblet  to  the  ground. 

This  was  Death,  Life's  dread  companion, 

Bound  to  Time  by  icy  fetters  ; 
But  between  Death  and  the  woman 

Stood  her  slave,  a  comely  youth. 
He  could  sweep  the  keys  of  feeling, 

Read  the  earth-book's  rocky  letters, 
And  in  cloistral  conscience  kneeling 

Face  to  face  commune  with  Truth. 

Like  the  potent,  skillful  genii, 

In  the  story  of  Aladdin, 
That  were  faithful  in  the  service 

Of  the  egg,  the  lamp,  or  ring, 
To  the  human  clay  enchanted, 

He  was  slave,  and  strove  to  gladden 
Life,  at  whose  warm  touch  it  panted : 

What  she  asked  for,  he  would  bring. 

It  was  he  that  built  the  cities, 

Wielded  nature's  restless  forces, 
Led  the  arts,  delved  mine  and  quarry, 
Bridged  the  rivers,  sailed  the  air, 
Tamed  hot  steam  to  fetch  and  carry, 

Traced  the  dim  stars  in  their  courses, 
And  from  the  sky  brought  Mercury 
Men's  messages  to  bear. 

Of  obtrusive  foot  elusive, 

To  the  wise  and  gentle-hearted 
He  was  ever  welcome,  being 

Slave  and  king  whom  men  call  Thought. 


THE  CITY   OF  DECAY.  175 

High  of  forehead,  pale  and  silent, 

With  a  smile  his  lips  were  parted, 
And  his  eyes,  large,  dark,  and  dreamy, 
From  the  skies  their  ardor  caught. 

Close  behind  Time's  chariot  followed 

Earliest  men,  the  club-armed  savage 
Of  the  geologic  epoch 

When  grim  Winter  plowed  the  earth. 
With  the  mammoth  and  the  great  bear, 

Which  at  will  were  wont  to  ravage, 
These  men  met  in  hasty  warfare, 

And  were  brutal  from  their  birth. 

From  this  shaggy  strife  and  grewsome, 

Each  was  in  his  trophy  girded. 
Fierce  his  beard  swept  down  his  bosom, 

And  his  long  hair  flag'd  behind. 
Reared  in  caves  where  day  scarce  shimmered, 

He  with  mimicked  sounds  was  worded ; 
Yet  from  even  him  outglimmered 
Dawnings  of  prescient  mind. 

Then  came  those  who  toiled  in  Shinar 

To  upbuild  sky-seeking  Babel, 
With  Noah  bent  —  who  eastward  went, 

And  founded  China's  power  — 
And  with  Misraim,  Nile's  lord,  Misraim, 

Son  of  sable  Ham  in  fable ; 
For  Misraim  fared  to  Egypt 

From  the  folly  of  the  tower. 

After  these  came  gods,  or  rather 

Famous  folk  of  mythic  story, 
Who,  for  beacon  deeds  or  passions, 

By  mankind  were  deified. 
Zeus,  Juno,  and  Apollo, 

Venus  fair  and  Neptune  hoary, 


176  THE  CITY  OF  DECAY. 

Thor,  the  hammerer,  and  Odin, 
Glided  by  with  stately  pride. 

Into  view  upon  the  way  rose 

Many  purple  heads  of  nations, 
All  the  shepherd-kings  and  Pharaohs, 

With  gray  Sidon's  kings,  and  Tyre's 
Nay,  Nineveh's  and  Babylon's; 

While  their  subject  populations 
Hung  about  them,  kindred  vapor 
Filled  with  often-flashing  fires. 

And  the  Graybeard  at  the  window 

Saw  the  colony  Egyptian, 
Who,  in  Attica,  the  rugged, 

Added  grace  to  art  and  lore. 
Then  not  surprised  he  recognized, 

By  Homer's  clear  description, 
All  the  heroes  that  for  Helen 

Raged  with  battle-joy  of  yore. 

In  that  ever-moving  pageant, 
Far  surpassing  every  other, 
He  beheld  the  prince  ./Eneas 

On  his  exiled,  Idan  prow ; 
Saw  great  Romulus  and  Remus 

With  their  lupine  foster-mother; 
Saw  dictator  Cincinnatus 

Standing  humbly  by  his  plow. 

With  his  army,  Alexander, 

In  bright  armor  and  regalia, 
Preceded  Afric  Hannibal ; 

And  high  in  pomp  and  state 
Sat  the  mighty  leader,  Caesar, 
At  the  feast  of  Lupercalia, 
Pushing  back  the  golden  bauble 

That  aroused  the  dagger's  hate. 


THE  CITY  OF  DECAY.  177 

Darkness  came ;  the  land  was  shaken, 

Fanes  and  castles  waver'd  falling, 
Graves  were  of  their  dead  forsaken, 

And  the  risen  gibberers  pale 
Down  the  way  moved  whitely,  fleeing 

In  the  mid-day  night  appalling, 
On  whose  stream  the  ghostly  beings 
Seemed  like  tempest-driven  sail. 

Then  the  Graybeard  at  Death's  window 
Saw  a  sight  that  deeply  thrilled  him : 
Three  dead  bodies  on  three  crosses 

On  dark  Calvary  lifted  high. 
But  the  Central  Face  with  rapture 

And  with  glad  amazement  filled  him ; 

For  with  joy  he  cried,   The   Truthsayer ! 

Then  fell  backward  with  a  sigh. 

Through  the  gloom  a  wan  ray  glinted 

As  the  woman  found  his  pillow, 
And,  in  benediction,  printed 

On  his  lips  a  sacred  kiss. 
He  was  dead :  a  shadow  horrid 

Had  engulfed  him,  like  a  billow. 
Cold  he  lay,  from  foot  to  forehead ; 

But  his  hands  were  clasped  in  bliss. 

IX. 

With  a  foot  that  rested  lightly 

On  the  wall  that  girt  the  city, 
Where  the  masonry  looked  seaward 

Near  the  palace-towers  of  Time, 
Robed  in  splendor  stood  an  angel 
With  benignant  arms  of  pity  — 
Wings  like  gleams  of  morn  outspreading, 
And  face  and  mien  sublime. 
12 


178  THE  CITY  OF  DECAY. 

His  stature  was  colossal ; 

He  was  taller  than  the  tower 
Of  an  organ-voiced  cathedral ; 

Yet  most  beautiful  his  form, 
Rising  worshipfully  Godward, 

Calm,  august  with  sacred  power  — 
His  serenity  more  awful 

Than  the  grandeur  of  a  storm. 

Just  above  him,  back  a  measure, 

On  a  level  with  his  shoulder, 
Stood  a  lofty,  equal  pleasure, 

Like  a  brother  to  the  first. 
Over  him  a  third  joy  hovered, 

Then  a  fourth,  till  their  beholder 
Knew  a  hundred,  glory-covered, 
On  the  raptured  vision  burst. 

Thus  the  great  seraphic   stairway 

Reached  far  out  above  the  ocean, 
Step  by  step,  to  dim  dominions 
Of  the  sapphire-vaulted  sky. 
In  the  light  the  argent  pinions 

Beat  the  air  with  gentle  motion, 
And  the  robes  of  brightness  fluttered 
Trailing  downward  from  on  high. 

As  the  angel  stairs  ascended. 

To  the  vision  they  diminished, 
Tho'  they  all  were  like,  and  blended 
As  one  ray  their  wisdom  shone. 
They  looked  down  with  calm  indulgence 

On  the  pageant  still  unfinished, 
Waiting,  in  their  winged  effulgence, 
To  receive  and  crown  their  own. 

Now,  the  freed  soul  of  the  Graybeard 
In  her  bosom  bearing  gently, 


THE  CITY  OF  DECAY.  179 

Came  dear  Kindness  to  the  seraph 

With  his  foot  upon  the  wall. 
Into  his  soft  hands  she  gave  it, 
And  he  looked  on  it  intently  ; 
For  to  him  it  was  an  infant 

New-born,  helpless,  frail,  and  small. 

To  the  angel  next  above  him 

He  upheld  it  when  he  blessed  it, 
And  that  splendor  took  the  spirit 

And  bestowed  it  on  the  third ; 
To  the  fourth  the  third  joy  raised  it, 

And  it  grew  as  each  caressed  it, 
For  young  wings  upon  its  shoulders 
Started  out  as  on  a  bird. 

Upward,  onward  borne  and  lifted 
To  the  tenth  seraphic  whiteness, 
There  the  spirit  fair  was  gifted 

With  a  spotless  robe  of  truth, 
And  was  crowned  with  his  lost  jewel  — 

Nay,  a  star  —  a  dream  of  brightness  — 
The  beatified  renewal 

Of  the  lustrous  pearl  of  youth. 

Gentle  Kindness,  gazing  upward, 

Saw  the  radiant  youth  ascending, 
Far  along  the  wide-winged  stairway, 

Toward  the  glory-parted  skies. 
He  had  spread  his  sweeping  pinions, 

Filled  with  love  and  peace  unending ; 

And  she  watched  his  heavenward   journey 

Till  he  vanished  from  her  eyes. 

Yet  she  heard  the  music  tender 

That  adown  the  stairway  sounded, 
And  beheld  the  blessed  splendor 

When  high  heaven's  gates  were  raised. 


180  BELLEROPHON. 

But  with  rhythmic  wings  and  voices, 

Her  the  seraphim  surrounded, 
And,  beseeching  her  to  join  them, 
They  upon  her  beauty  gazed. 

But  Kindness  yet  would  rather 

Bide  within  Time's  breathful   portal, 
Knowing  that  she   has  a  Father 

In  the  purer  world  above  — 
Love  unselfish,  universal, 

Truth  celestial  and  immortal, 
In  the  city  built  of  jewels, 

Whose  foundation  is  of  Love. 


BELLEROPHON. 

THERE  lives  a  creature  of  a  dreamer's  brain, 
That  strove  by  charms,  and  with  the  aid  of  ghosts, 
Of  making  gold  to  find  the  secret  out ; 
That  drew  a  magic  ring  about  his  crucible, 
And,  while  the  spirits  worked  at  alchemy, 
He,  to  beat  back  vast,  adverse  ghosts  essayed. 
But  soon,  within  the  circle  he  had  drawn, 
Was  set  a  monstrous  Foot,  so  large,  his  face 
Was  level  with  the  instep :  all   in  vain 
His  puny  efforts  to  drive  back  the  Foot. 

Oh,  hard  for  him  who,  having  once  let  in 
On  the  charm'd  circle  of  the  golden  good 
The  first  advance  of  error,  strives  to  oust 
The  evil,  and  make  clear  the  round  again. 
Not  often  will  the  giant  Foot  retreat. 

And  I  bethink  me  him  who,  in  the  past, 
Before  Christ's  passion  ransom'd  man  from  sin, 


BELLEROPHON.  181 

And  in  a  land  that  did  not  know  of  God 
Forced  back  the  Foot  of  one  remorseful  crime, 
Walked  silently  heneath  the  silent  stars, 
And  gave  his  heart  to  cogitation  thus : 

"  Anteia,  wife  to  Proitos,  tempted  me  : 

She,  in  the  palace  where  the  fountains  are, 

Met  me  at  twilight  as  she  walked   alone, 

Clad  with  uncinctured  robe,  adorned  with  gems, 

Perfumed  with  all  the  spices  of  the  East. 

She  made  her  arms  a  wreath  about  my  neck, 

And,  lifting  both  her  small,  gold-sandal'd  feet, 

Hung   her    full  weight   upon    me ;  her    mouth's    closed 

bud 

Burst  into  honey 'd  flower  against  my  lips. 
With  warm  cheek  pressed  to  mine,  she,  in  my  ear, 
Exhaled  the  poison  whisper  of  her  love. 

"  I  drew  back  scornfully  surprised,  and  hissed 
Between  set  teeth  a  menace  at  all  sin. 
She  left  me  thus,  and  went  to  him,  her  liege, 
And  with  the  broken  fragments  of  her  speech  — 
Bits  of  the  jar  that  could  not  hold    her  tears  — 
She  let  it  fall  that  I  had  wronged  her  much. 

"  In  swift,  deep  wrath  the  fierce  king  called  for  me, 
And  on  a  tablet  writing  fatal   characters, 
With  them  he  sent  me  forth  beyond  his  realm 
To  Lykia,  to  the   king  thereof,  who  met, 
And,  by  the  stream  of  Xanthos,   welcomed  me. 
Nine  days  of  feasting  passed,  and  on  the  tenth 
The  tablet  was  unsealed,  its  purport  known  — 
And  its  base  appetite  is  gorged  to-day. 

"Th'  unconquerable  Chimaira  first  I  slew. 
She  was  in  front  a  lion,  and  behind 
A  serpent,  and  in  the  middle  a  goat. 


182  BELLEROPHON. 

Her  breath  was  blazing  fire,  with  which,  in  rage, 

She  burned  the  drought-parched  forests  in  her  path. 

And  her,  by  winged  alliance  with  the  horse, 

I  slew,  indeed,  and  gave  to  rigid  death. 

I  overcame  the  far-famed  Solymi, 

I  smote  the  man-opposing  Amazons, 

I  turned  to  naught  the  well-armed  ambuscade, 

And  made  illustrious  my  bitter  name. 

"  But  what  if  I  had  yielded  to  the  queen, 

And  from  the  king  had  stolen  that  which  she, 

Tho'  offering,  had  yet  no  right  to  give? 

I  hold,  the  soul  is  like  a  piece  of  cloth 

That,  being  stained,  can  be  made  clean  no  more  — 

That  nothing  can  erase  the  stain  of  sin. 

"Picture  that  I,  having  passed  safely  through 
The  darkness  that  is  seen  by  dying  eyes, 
Have  reached  the  light  beyond,  and  see  the  gods 
In  synod,  and  hear  Zeus  speak  and  say  : 

"  'We  serve  no  law,  yet  bind  the  steadfast  earth 
And  all  the  ways  of  men  in  chains  of  law 
Harmonious  with  good  and  linked  thereto. 
The  blinded  mortal  lured  to  break  one  chain 
Makes  discord,  stains  the  fabric  of  his  soul, 
And  brings  dire  retribution  headlong  down.' 

"Then  I,  in  meek  abasement  kneeling  there 
On  the  first  step  of  Zeus's  gold  throne, 
Hold  up  my  shameful  soul,  a  piece  of  cloth 
Tlirough  fault  of  Queen  Anteia  doubly  stained, 
And  say: 

"  '  O  Zeus,  this  poor  gift  accept ! 
Thou  wroughtest  it :    the  texture  is  as  fine 
As  the  loose  wool  of  clouds,  or  the  worm's  silk. 
These  blots  and  stains  are  most  like  roses  strewn.' 


THE  HERMIT.  183 

"  His  calmness  rippled  by  slight  breeze  of  scorn, 
The  great  cloud-gatherer  would  answer  me : 

"  '  0  fool !    and  blind,  to  mock  the  mighty  gods  ; 
For,  on  the  mystic  texture  of  the  soul, 
Only  a  noble  deed  shows  like  a  flower.' 

"  Well,  whoso  wills  shall  ever  have  his  way, 
And  what  was  right,  that  I  had  willed  to  do. 
So,  haply,  I  on  Pegasus  shall  scale 
White-crowned  Olympus  to  the  brazen  halls, 
If  I  may  keep  the  path  of  righteousness 
That  the  strong  gods  ordained." 

Thus  mused  he  then, 
Unmindful  that  great  zeal  for  any  good 
Begets  a  narrowness  that  leads  to  ill. 
The  heaven-sent  gad-fly  stings  the  flying  horse, 
And  hurls  the  rider  back  to  common  ground. 


THE   HERMIT. 

THE  holiday  was  azure-domed  and  fair, 
And  to  the  Coliseum  thronged  again 
Blithe  children,  fresh  and  pure  as  morning  air, 
Fond,  tender  women,  and  rude,  brawny  men ; 
And  all  gaze  centered  in  the  ring  below, 
To  view  once  more  a  gladiatorial  show. 

The  late  few  days  had  been  to  waning  Rome 

A  giddy  wine  in  pleasure's  brittle  bowl. 

There  had  been  pomp  of  legions  marching  home, 

And  civic  games,  and  races  to  a  goal ; 

There  had  been  fights  with  beasts  ;    and  now  all  breath 

Served  expectation  at  the  show  of  death. 


184  THE  HERMIT. 

This  was  the  triumph  that  had  been  decreed 

To  Stilicho,  who,  on  an  Easter-day, 

Had  met  the  Gothic  hordes,  and  made  them  bleed, 

And  turned  invasion  into  wild  dismay ; 

But  with  drawn  swords  the  gladiators  came 

To  end  the  pleasures  with  a  deed  of  shame. 

Feeling  the  weight  of  eyes  upon  them  rest, 
They  came  undauntedly,  for  often  pride 
Shuts  up  the  dens  of  fear  within  the  breast. 
These  men  were  bold  to  battle  till  they  died, 
But  lacked  the  fortitude,  uncommon  still, 
To  show  resistance  to  the  public  will. 

For  it  is  less  to  face  soon-ended  death 
Than  to  oppose  a  great  and  popular  wrong. 
But  he  was  bolder,  armed  with  fearless  breath, 
The  white-haired  hermit,  broad  of  soul  and  strong, 
Who  in  that  deep  arena  dared  intrude, 
And  raise  his  voice  against  the  multitude. 

"  This  is  not  pleasure  —  it  is  shame !  "  he  cried. 
"  O  people,  let  these  public  murders  cease ! 
Here  let  them  end,  and  now,  lest  we  be  dyed 
In  guiltless  blood  again,  and  mar  our  peace. 
Oh,  let  us  not  with  sin  God's  grace  repay, 
Who  gave  us  might  to  drive  the  Goth  away !  " 

Bareheaded,  and  with  naked  feet,  he  stood 

Between  the  fighters  in  the  open  place, 

Clothed  in  plain  garb  :    his  face  was  mild  and  good, 

And  beautiful  with  kindness  to  his  race ; 

For  there  are  June-like  souls  so  warm  and  free 

That  love  blooms  in  them  for  humanity. 

But  round  him  loud  the  Coliseum  rang 
With  disapproval  of  his  kind  appeal ; 


A  MORNING  PASTORAL.  185 

The  populace,  exclaimed,   "  On  !    on !     Let  clang 
The  sharp  contention  of  exciting  steel ! 
Fight,  gladiators,  fight !     Nor  heed  nor  look 
Give  to  the  movement  of  this  f reward  brook  ! " 

Enraged  that  still  he  stayed  the  swordsmen  back, 
True  as  an  arrow  to  his  heart's  good  aim, 
The  whirlpool  of  the  people  in  attack 
Surged  downward  to  him,  hissing  as  it  came  ; 
And,  buffeted  and  trampled  on,  he  died, 
And  was  as  drift  ingulfed  in  that  round  tide. 

For  when  the  living  whirlpool  ebbed  away, 
And  cleared  the  barbarous  arena's  space, 
Stretched  on  the  ground  the  hermit-martyr  lay, 
A  smile  of  triumph  on  his  peaceful  face  ; 
His  long  white  hair  was  clotted  with  his  gore, 
And  marks  of  feet  were  on  the  garb  he  wore. 

Great  is  the  martyr's  blood,  for  it  can  gain 

Its  owner's  cause,  and  surelier  than  he ! 

For  when  the  people  saw  the  hermit  slain, 

And  through  the  storm-spent  cloud  the  sun  shone  free, 

They  loathed  what  they  had  done,  and  from  that  day 

The  shows  of  gladiators  passed,  away. 


A  MORNING  PASTORAL. 

IF  some  way  Bichat's  theory  be  true, 

That  animal  and  all  organic  life 

In  man  combine  and  culminate  —  the  brain 

The  animal,  the  heart    th'  organic  life  — 

I  know  wherefore  my  love  unasked  goes  out 

To  meadows,  trees,  clear  brooks,  and  distant  hills, 

For  thus  I  am  their  fellow  and  their  kin. 


186  A  MORNING  PASTORAL. 

I  chiefly  like,  while  yet  the  day  is  new, 

To  walk  among  the  fields  along  the  road, 

And  brim  my  heart  with  Nature  as  I  go. 

The  hoarse  grasshoppers  soon  begin  their  drone ; 

But  on  a  leaf,  one  here  appears  to  drowse  — 

A  sleepy  sailor  in  an  open  boat, 

Rocked  on  uneasy  billows   of  thin  air — 

A  Palinurus,  who,   while  piloting 

The  Trojan  galleys   on  disastrous  seas, 

Drowsed  into  death,   among  the  Siren  rocks. 

Here,  on  a  cliff,  a  noisy  brook  gets  force, 

And,  plunging  under   alders,  leaps  along 

Down  to  the   fallow,   rioting  like  a  boy. 

Anon  I  start  a  thrush,  and  up  he  wings, 

And  with  a  trail  of  music  darts  away, 

Seeking  the  old  republic  of  high  woods, 

Where  he  is   citizen,  but  where  his  kind 

Use  melody  for  speech,  and  have  no  flag 

Save  the  waved  leaf  above  each  wicker  home. 

Over  the  tree-tops  yonder  flies  a  crow 

That  boldly  vents  his  unpopular  caw, 

And  breasts  the  stubborn  wind  to  gain  the  shore, 

And  cram  his  crop  with  what  the  tide  brings  in. 

All  flowers  along  the  way  are  friends  of  mine, 

And  once  I  knew  a  meditative  rose 

That  never  raised  its  head  from  bowing  down, 

Yet  drew  its  inspiration  from  the  stars. 

It  bloomed  and  faded  here  beside  the  road, 

And,  being  a  poet,   wrote  on  empty  air 

With  fragrance  all  the  beauty  of  its  souL 

I  pause  beneath  an  overhanging  elm, 

Where,  cut  in  granite   of  the  vine-grown  wall, 

The  wide  mouth  of  a  quaint,  conspicuous  face 

Speaks  to  all  thirst  with  visible  eloquence. 

Beside  it  sits  a  beggar  on  its  trough, 

Who  craves  with  quivering  lip  an  alms  from  me. 

I  give  him  from  my  earning,  and  go  back 

Toward  the  loud  city  with  a  lighter  heart. 


VANDERL  7N.  187 


STORM. 

THE  pale  day  died  in  the  rain  to-night, 

And  its  hurrying  ghost,  the  wind,  goes  by ; 

The  mountains  loom  in  their  silent  might, 
And  darkly  frown  at  the  sea  and  sky. 

The  petrel  wings  close  to  his  surging  home, 
And  stabs  with  a  shriek  the  shuddering  night ; 

The  mad  wave  beckons  with  hands  of  foam 
Dipped  in  the  blood  of  the  sea-tower's  light. 

So,  in  my  heart,  is  a  storm  to-night, 
Storm  and  tumult  that  will  not  cease ; 

And  my  soul,  in  bitterness,  longs  for  the  light, 
For  the  waking  bird  and  the  dawn  of  peace. 


VANDERLYN. 

THE  man  who,  with  a  single  aim,  sailed  forth 

From  doubting  Spain  toward  the  unknown  West, 

I  would  so  paint  that  men  in  after-years, 

Like  me,  long  sick  at  heart  with  hope  put  off, 

Seeing  his  lifted  and  prophetic  face 

That  fronts  the  fact  and  substance  of  his  dreams, 

Shall  look  not  only  on  Columbus  there, 

But  see  themselves  in  him,  and  each  one  feel 

That  he,  too,  with  persistence,  shall  set  foot 

On  the  firm  border  of  his  hope's  new  world. 

How  weak  our  hands  to  do  the  work  of  thought 
That  flies  before  !     Here,  after  thirty  years, 
I  am  again  in  Rome :    now  on  the  quest 
To  find  a  portrait  of  my  hero's  face, 


188  VANDERLYN. 

And  fill  one  panel  at  the  CapitoL 

With  failing  force  —  weary,  broken,  old  — 

How  shall  I  say  in  color  what  I  feel, 

Or  make  stand  out  the  picture  seen  within? 

'Tis  well  that  doting  retrospection  comes 

To  help  us  bear  the  burden  of  disuse, 

When  little  light  is  left  wherein  to  work, 

If  so  be  any  more  may  still  be  done. 

I,  looking  back,  see  that  my  work  is  true  — 

At  one  with  truth,  and  wrought  with  humble  love. 

Men  come  and  go ;    but  truth  shall  ever  be. 

It  does  not  fade,  nor  rust,  nor  waste  away; 

But,  like  the  sun,  endures :    forgetting  this, 

We  painters  miss  the  heights  we  might  attain 

In  feeling  that  the  truthful  work  we  do 

Will  live  and  speak  when  we  are  silentest, 

And  strongly  plead  for  us  against  neglect, 

The  dull,  cold-shouldered  mother  of  regret, 

That  in  our  hopeful  faces  shuts  the  door. 

For  merit  scorned  may  safely  laugh  at  scorn, 

Because  the  common  heart  by  nature  turns 

And  to  the  truth  despised  does  reverence. 

But  whether  scorned  or  praised,  good  work  abides, 

And,  praised  or  scorned,  the  undeserving  dies; 

And  who  is  he,  so  short  of  sight,  so  vain, 

That  is  content  to  have  his  poor  work  live  ? 

Painters  there  are  who  never  touch  a  brush : 
Washington,  Jefferson,  and  Madison 
Upon  the  ample  canvas  of  their  hope 
Painted  a  great  republic  that  to  art 
Should  be  most  bountiful,  should  wed  no  creed, 
But  be  fast  bound  to  honor  in  all  ways, 
And  free  to  peaceful  feet  from  every  shore. 
Thus  clear  was  their  exemplar :  it  is  strange 
The  work  itself  is  so  lamentable. 


VANDERLTN.  189 

How  long  before  the  outlines  that  are  left 

Shall  be  defaced  by  shamed  experience  ? 

Munificent  to  art !  —  its  artists  starve. 

Art  does  not  thrive  without  encouragement, 

Which  follows  surelier  beneath  a  crown, 

Where  titled  wealth  and  taste  are  often  joined, 

Than  from  republican  ingratitude. 

For  how  shall  art  have  that  which  is  its  due 

Where  every  nerve  strains  in  the  race  for  wealth, 

Which,  being  won,  is  not  laid  out  for  art 

Nor  aught  that  will  ennoble,  but  for  dress 

And  gay  equipages  —  mere  brainless  show, 

Incongruous  with  true  democracy  ? 

Nay,  how  shall  art  receive  its  just  reward 

Where  honest  worth,  willing  to  serve  the  state, 

Spurns  the  political  and  slimy  rungs 

That  lead  up  to  a  short  authority  ?  — 

Where  foul  corruption,  listless  to  rebuke, 

Veiled  by  the  shadow  of  the  Capitol, 

Stains  weak  hands  with  dishonorable  gold, 

And  so  makes  law  ? 

It  has  been  truly  said 

That,  lacking  art,  no  nation  can  be  great ; 
But  yet  one  wholly  given  up  to  it 
Is  a  top-heavy  ship,  not  ballasted, 
And  helpless  in  the  fury  of  the  storm. 
But  in  a  baser,  more  ignoble  case, 
A  nation  of  mere  dollar-getters,  warped, 
Narrow,  sordid  —  a  people  such  as  mine, 
Who  left  me  to  stand  waiting  through  life's  noon, 
Through  life's  high  noon,  that  never  comes  but  once, 
And  when  my  sad  and  only  day  is  spent 
Give  the  commission  twenty  years  delayed. 
Why  not  have  handed  it  forthwith  when  asked  ? 
Then  I  had  ringed  the  whole  Rotunda  round 
With  painted  history,  and  from  the  past 


190  DANDELION  AND  TIGER-LILT. 

Called  back  a  silent  Congress  to  look  down 
On  men  —  the  immortal  on  the  mortal. 

But  now,  too  late !     The  studio  is  cold, 
The  landscape  on  the  easel  rent  across, 
The  palette  broken,  the  last  brush  worn  out 
All  colors  fade  ;  for  night  we   know  not  of 
Soon,  soon  will  close  the  brief,  regretful  day. 
Too  late!  too  late! 


DANDELION  AND  TIGER-LILY. 


THE  gentle  slope  of  a  meadow 
Lay  mantled  in  spring-time  green, 

And  beyond,  in  the  glare  of  sunlight, 
The  sky-rimmed  ocean  was  seen. 

A  rocky  ledge  in  the  meadow 

Towered  up  with  a  lichened  face, 

And  a  lonely,  oft-sighing  pine-tree 
Shadily  rose  from   its  base. 

The  meadow  was  jeweled  over 

With  the  dandelion  flower, 
And  under  the  boughs  of  the  pine-tree 

There  grew  a  natural  bower. 

From  the  distant,  spire-crowned  village, 
A  man  in  life's  young  prime 

To  the  rocky,  green-roofed  seclusion 
Came  seeking  rest  for  a  time. 

A  breeze  from  the  lulled   Atlantic 

Swayed  the  grieving  pine-tree's  bough, 


DANDELION  AND   TIGER-LILJ.  191 

And,  caressing  each  dandelion, 
Kissed  softly  the  comer's  brow. 

And  a  breeze  from  a  sea  of  sorrow 

Swept  over  his  inmost  soul : 
To  .branch  and  flower  of  his  being 

The  sighing  tenderness  stole. 

This  waft  from  the  isles  of  music 

Was  yearningly  sad  and   sweet ; 
It  murmured  along  till  he  voiced  it  in  song 

For  the  flowers  that  grew  at  his  feet. 

He  sang  to  the  dandelions 

That  covered  the  meadow  fair, 
And  they  lightly  leaned  and  listened 

To  the  words  of  his  pale  despair. 


THE    DANDELION. 

Dear  flower,  so  meek  and  humble, 

Most  kindly  I  behold 
Thy  slender  stem  and  leafless 

Upbear  thy  yellow  gold. 

Sweet  day-star  of  the  meadow, 

The  languid  lily  knows 
The  weariness  that  closes 

Thy  petals  for  repose. 

The  stars  that  watch  thy  slumbers 
Helped  warm  thee  into  bloom; 

Haply  of  them  thou  dreamest 
When  curtained  in  thy  room. 

Thy  room  hath  silken  curtains 
Wherein  thou  dost  abide 


192  DANDELION  AND  TIGER-LILY. 

When  Sleep  and  Night  come  sailing 
Across   the  darkling  tide. 

Thou  lack'st  the  soul  of  fragrance 
That  hath  the  rose,  thy  queen ; 

Thy  soul  is  globed  and  downy, 
And  at  thy  death  is  seen. 

Death  ends  not  life,  thou  showest; 

For  thy  white,  mist-like  ghost 
Is  blown  abroad,  and  wanders 

To  distant  field  and  coast. 

Yet  not  beyond  the  border 
Of  this  round  stage  of  strife 

May  thy  wan  ghost  be  wafted 
And  dwell  again  with  life. 

But  man  has  faith,  whose  pinions 
The  starry  depths  divide, 

That  he,  in  worlds  he  knows  not, 
Shall  be  revivified. 

0  flowers  !     O  dandelions  ! 
The  flower  I  love  is  dead. 

Beneath  the  dandelions 

They  made  her  lonely  bed. 

1  could  not  see  her  spirit 
As  I  might  look  on  thine, 

That,  soft  and  light  as  zephyr, 
Floats  in  the  air  divine. 

But  she  is  yet  before  me 
In  beauty  rich  and  fair ; 

Her  face  is  bending  over 
Amidst  her  golden  hair. 


DANDELION  AND   TIGER-LILY.  193 

Her  eyes,  in  depth  and  luster, 

Outrival  star  and  gem  ; 
She  is  more  lithe  and  graceful 

Than  thou  upon  thy  stem. 

She,  too,  a  golden  day-star, 

Dreamed  of  the  stars  on  high, 
Closing  her  jealous  curtains 

When  Sleep  and  Night  came  by. 

Alas,  the  flower-like  maiden 

Whom  I  have  loved    so  well! 
Too  soon  her  white  soul  ripened, 

Too  soon  life's  petals  fell. 

Yet  when  the  flower  had  faded, 

And  all  was  tears  and  dole, 
Poised  on  its  stem   a  moment 

The  sphered,  departing  soul. 

A  wind  of  night  came  sighing, 

And  bore  the  soul  afar, 
Beyond  the  world,  to  waken 

On  some  seraphic  star. 

No  more  my  arms  enfold  her; 

In  grief  I  bow  my  head. 
0  flowers  !     O  dandelions  ! 

The  flower  I  love  is  dead. 


n. 


Near  the  foot  of  a  lofty  sierra, 
Whose  peak  was  bound  in  snow, 

Lay  a  dreamy  town  of  adobe 
In  the  summer  noontide  glow ; 
13 


194  DANDELION  AND   TIGER-LILY. 

And  in  one  of  the  sunny  plazas, 
That  boasted  the  city's  name, 

Was  a  well  in  the  midst  of  cacti, 
And  hither  some  maidens  came. 

Up-drawing  the  pleasant  -water, 
That  sparkled  as  winter  stars, 

On  their  heads,  like  Syrian  women, 
The  bevy  set  it  in  jars. 

One  rose  of  the  dark-eyed  garden 
"Was  lovelier  far  than  the  rest; 

She  bore  no  jar,  and  a  jewel 
Heaved  on  her  tawny  breast. 

With  her  night-like  shawl  she  hooded, 
For  a  traveler  wandered  near ; 

But,  out  of  the  folded  darkness, 
Upon  him  she  looked  with  cheer. 

"  Sweet  maid,"  said  the  handsome  stranger, 

Dismounting  at   the  well, 
"  Beneath  which  roof  in  the  plaza 

Does  the  good  alcalde  dwell  ?  " 

With  a  graceful,  languid  gesture 
That  bore  an  unconscious  charm, 

She  drew  the  long  hood  backward, 
With  the  glimpse  of  a  rounded  arm. 

She  stood,  an  embodied  twilight, 

With  fading  sunset  skies, 
And  the  moon  of  love,  and  the  star  above, 

In  the  depths  of  her  dusky  eyes. 

She  answered  the  simple  question 
With  utterance  soft  and  low, 


DANDELION  AND   TIGER-LILY.  195 

And  the  gentle  intonations 
Had  a  longing,  melting  flow. 

"  My  father  is  the  alcalde ; 

And,  if  the  stranger  please, 
I  will  lead  the  way  to  the  mansion ; 

It  is  yonder,  among  the  trees." 

The  traveler  walked  with  the  maiden, 

And  led  his  dusty  beast ; 
And  first  to  meet  them  and  greet  them 

Was  a  long-robed  shaven  priest. 

The  maiden  smiled  at  the  omen, 

As  it  seemed  to  her  throbbing  heart ; 

But  was  grieved  that  the  manly  stranger 
Moved  from  her   slightly  apart. 

She  felt  he  had  read  the  meaning 

Of  her  smile  and  every  look, 
As  if  they  were  lines  red-lettered 

In  some  old,  familiar  book. 

He  was  tall  and  of  graceful  carriage, 
And  had  black-lashed,  deep-gray  eyes, 

That  under  his  wide  sombrero 
Looked  eager  for  bold  emprise. 

Reproachfully  went  she  nearer 

And  glanced  at  his  face  above  ; 
For  the  summits  of  admiration 

Were  touched  with  the  dawn  of  love. 

The  stranger  entered  the  mansion 

And  its  court  of  tropic  green, 
Where  a  warm  New-Mexican  welcome 

Was  given  with  stately  mien. 


196  DANDELION  AND   TIGER-LILY. 

For  the  much-beloved  alcalde 

Was  glad,  he  said,  to  behold 
The  son  of  a  faithful  comrade 

In  the  wandering  days  of  old. 

Dull  gray  were  the  walls  of  the  building ; 

But  white  were  the   rooms  within, 
And  a  crucifix  over  a  mantel 

Was  hung  for  the  healing  of  sin. 

While  Hospitality,  sitting 

In  the  midst  of  a  lavish  store, 

Filled  the  house  with  her  plenteous  sunshine 
That  had  lighted  it  oft  before. 

And  the  joy  of  the  good  alcalde, 
Her  thoughts  not  daring  to  phrase, 

Disclosed  to  the  guest  her  favor 
In  tenderly  winning  ways. 

Upon  his    arm  close-leaning 

In  the  moonlit  garden  air, 
She  rested  against  his  shoulder 

Her  crown  of  lustrous  hair. 

But  a  vision  rose  before  him 

Of  the  love  that  used  to  be, 
With  the  form  so  fair  and  the  golden  hair 

That  he  saw  by  the  distant  sea. 

And  tears  in  the  blue  eyes  gathered, 
That  drew  him  reluctant  away 

From  the  breathing  flower  of  enchantment 
That  close  to  his  shoulder  lay. 

For  his  cold  good-night  was  spoken 
At  once,  with  a  shrinking  start, 


DANDELION  AND  TIGER-LILY.  197 

And  the  maiden  still  lacked  a  token 
To  gladden  her  loving  heart. 

But  he  dreamed  of  her  long  black  lashes, 

And  the  gloss  of  a  raven  tress  ; 
For  the  dream  was  veined  with  the  love  contained 

In  the  soft,  repulsed  caress. 

ni. 

He  rose  in  the  sultry  weather ; 

The  sun  was  soaring  high, 
And  the  pathed  court  under  his  window 

Lay  smiling  up  at  the  sky. 

There  glistened  a  spraying  fountain 

With  green  luxuriance  round, 
And  tiger-lilies  were  blooming 

In  a  beam  of  the  star-shaped  ground. 

They  lifted  their  red-gold  trumpets 

As  they  stood  in  close  array, 
And  with  swarthy  silence  saluted 

The  ruler  of  shining  day. 

The  guest,  beholding  their  splendor, 

By  the  voice  of  his  heart  was  told 
That  more  than  the  dandelion's 

Is  the  tiger-lily's  gold. 

For  he  saw  in  the  motherless  maiden, 

Whose  favor  had  come  unwooed, 
Of  the  tawny  tiger-lilies 

The  gracious  similitude. 

At  eve  she  came  from  vespers, 

With  her  prayer-book,  like  a  saint, 


198  DANDELION  AND   TIGER-LILY. 

And,  alone  in  her  room  in  the  twilight  gloom, 
With  tears  made  mute  complaint. 

While  they  yet  fell  salt  and  grievous, 

A  curtain  was  drawn  aside, 
And  the  frank  request  of  the  favored  guest, 

To  speak,  was  not  denied. 

His  kiss  on  her  hand  brought  succor 

To  the  hopes  that  had  fought  her  fears, 

And  she  brushed  away  the  uncounted 
Pearl  rosary  of  her  tears. 

The  young  man  spoke :  "  Senorita, 

'  I  love  you '  is  simply  said ; 
As  I  say  it  to  one  that  is  living, 

I  said  it  to  one  that  is  dead. 

"  Far  away  where  the  wild  Atlantic 
Rolls  white  on  New  England's  shore, 

In  a  simple  village  I  met  her 

Whose  eyelids  morn  touches  no  more. 

"  Green,  green  was  the  earth  about  us, 
And  the  meadow  flowers  were  fair ; 

For  the  gold  of  the  dandelion 
Was  like  my  loved  one's  hair. 

"  Her  eyes  were  the  skies  of  azure, 
Her  voice  was  the  woodbird's  song, 

And  the  radiant  love  she  gave  me 
Was  a  river  deep  and  strong. 

"  But  she  faded  away  to  a  spirit 

That  often  I  yet  behold; 
Her  eyes  are  upturned  and  peaceful, 

Her  hair  is  fluttering  gold. 


DANDELION  AND  TIGEB^LILY.  199 

"  She  dwells  on  a  star,  and  softly 

Descends  on  its  limpid  ray, 
To  float  as  a  song  where  I  journey  along 

The  irretraceable  way. 

"  From  the  dial-like  scene  of  passion, 

The  prairie  wilds  across 
I  came  to  forsake  my  sorrow, 

The  shadow  of  bitter  loss. 

"When  first  I  beheld  you  I  loved  you, 
And  the  shadow  was  turned  away ; 

But  what  of  my  dead  love's  spirit? 
Must  I  bear  its  scorn  for  aye  ? 

"  Will  it  scorn  me,  and  harm  you  for  taking 
The  place  in  my  life  it  possessed? 

It  may  be  that  my  love  brings  sorrow; 
But  here  it  shall  stand  confessed. 

"I  warred  at  first  with  its  coming, 

And  bade  it  forever  depart, 
Lest  a  shaft  from  the  quiver  of  evil 

Might  find  its  way  to  your  heart. 

"  For  if  she  had  lived  on,  and  my  spirit 
Kept  watch  and  ward  of  her  life, 

Would  /  be  content  and  unangered 
To  see  her  another's  wife  ? 

"  I  know  not.     I  know  that  I  love  you." 
As  her  hand  in  his  own  he  pressed, 

Her  arm  round  his  neck  stole  fondly, 
And  drew  his  head  to  her  breast. 

And  she  said,  with  a  voice  whose  music 
Flowed  clear  as  a  rock-sourced  stream, 


200  DANDELION  AND   TIGER-LILT. 

"The  living  should  live  for  the  living, 
For  the  dead  are  a  fading  dream. 

"The  living  should  live  for  the  living, 
For  the  dead,  on  the  further  shore, 

Are  filled  with  joys  immortal, 
And  think  of  this  life  no  more." 


IV. 

Again  queen  Sleep  ascended 

Her  sable,  starry  throne, 
And  her  heavy,  indolent  empire 

About  its  base  lay  prone. 

She  lifted  her  downy  scepter 
With  closed  and  weary  eyes, 

And  raised  the  curtain  of  dreamland 
Where  her  poppied  meadow  lies. 

The  elves  and  fairies  came  tripping 
Across  the  fantastic  green ; 

The  clown  and  harlequin  jested, 
And  columbine  danced  between. 

The  dead  with  the  living  mingled, 
And  time  was  rolled  away ; 

For  in  dreamland  is  no  to-morrow, 
Nor  yesterday,  nor  to-day. 

Thus  rapt,  the  town  of  adobe 
Lay  shut  in  the  hand  of  night ; 

But  the  moon's  impalpable  silver 
Clad  roof  and  wall  with  white. 

So,  deeply  dark  were  the  shadows, 
And,  like  another  of  these, 


DANDELION  AND  TIGER-LILY.  201 

A  Nav'ajo  lithe,  broad-shouldered, 
Crept  onward  by  sure  degrees. 

He  stole  along  through  the  plaza 
Till,  the  door  of  the  mansion  found, 

His  summons  startled  the  echoes 
That  loudly  repeated  it  round. 

He  said  to  the  proud  alcalde, 

"  One  day  my  life  you  saved. 
Your  mercy  to-night  I  come  to  requite, 

And  much  for  this  have  I  braved. 

"  As  glad  to  reward  a  kindness 

As  I  am  to  avenge  a  wrong, 
My  arrows  are  swift  and  deadly, 

And  the  love  in  my  heart  is  strong. 

"  Twice  a  hundred  fierce  Apaches 

On  the  war-path  start  to-day, 
And  are  coming  down  the  canyon 

To  rob  your  people  and  slay. 

"  The  Utes  and  Navajos  promise 

To  meet  and  battle  the  foe, 
That  will  hasten  back,  as  a  frightened  pack 

Of  howling  coyotes  go." 

In  the  dusk  of  the  day  that  followed, 

The  red-skinned  allies  came  ; 
And  their  camp-fires,  round  the  plaza, 

Were  a  girdle  jeweled  with  flame. 

Three  hundred  armed  and  painted 

Were  mounted  at  break  of  day, 
And  the  Navajo  with  the  white  guest 

Rode  in  the  van  away. 


202  DANDELION  AND  TIGER-LILY. 

Three  hundred  dusky  allies 

Rode  out  in  the  dewy  morn, 
And  many  an  Indian  maiden 

Was  doomed  to  live  forlorn. 

The  good    alcalde's  daughter 

Sat  at  her  window  alone, 
And,  seeing  the  armed  departure, 

Drooped  with  a  piteous  moan. 

But  the  Utes  and  Navajos,  valiant, 

Rode  onward  till  lost  to  view, 
And  came  to  the  silent  canyon 

Where  the  sensitive  aspens  grew. 

The  fir  and  the  pine  cast  shadows 
Down  the  slopes  of  the  great  divide, 

While  a  sorrowful  wind,  like  a  soul  that  had  sinned, 
In  the  resinous  branches  sighed. 

All  the  lonely  length  of  the  valley 

A  stream  of  melted  snow 
Wound  gulfward,  a  pale-blue  ribbon, 

With  a  silken  sound  and  flow. 

Between  white-hooded  sierras 

The  awful  canyon  lay, 
The  bed  of  a  mighty  river 

Whose  waters  had  shrunk  away. 

Two  days  the  leader-like  pale-face 

And  the  warriors  followed  the  trail, 
And  they  reached  the  sides  of  the  canyon 

That  it  seemed  no  foot  might  scale. 

Here  the  frightened  stream  rushed  toward  them 
As  white  as  the  face  of  fear ; 


DANDELION  AND   TIGER-LILY.  203 

And  an  eagle,  in  widening  circles. 
Flapped  up  from  his  covert  near. 

At  the  mouth  of  the  league-long  narrows, 

Like  a  dragon's  out-thrust  tongue 
Stretched  a  plain,  where,  in  deep,  lush  grasses, 

The  bells  of  flowers  were  swung. 

The  trail  led  up  the  canyon 

And  clung  to  its  rocky  side. 
What  was  it  thereon  descending 

That  the  pale-face  first  descried  ? 

He  looked  from  a  jutting  bowlder 

And  knew  the  Apaches  came. 
The  westering  sun  was  sinking 

Like  a  giant  world  aflame. 

The  Ute  and  Navajo  allies 

Returned  from  the  open  space, 
And  in  a  gorge  of  the  mountain 

Encamped  in  a  hidden  place. 

They  saw  the  distant  Apaches 

Arrive  on  the  flowery  plain, 
And  betimes  for  the  night  in  the  shadowy  light 

A  restful  bivouac  gain. 

How  soothingly  thou  dost  silence, 

O  Night !  the  discord  and  jar, 
And  manacle  with  thy  darkness 

The  violent  hands  of  war. 

Give  sleep  to  the  seeker  for  glory, 

And  dreams  that  angels  devise  ; 
For  a  night  that  is  deeper  than  thou  art 

To-morrow  may  darken  his  eyes. 


204  DANDELION  AND    TIGER-LILY. 


Ere  from  the  dim  horizon 

The  darkness  had  yet  withdrawn, 

Like  a  bride,  the  day  forthcoming 
Was  seen  in  its  veil  of  dawn. 

The  Ute  and  Navajo  allies 

Moved  down,  in  the  early  breeze, 

To  the  green  plain's  southerly  border 
Of   rustling  cotton-wood  trees. 

Therein  a  watchful  Apache 

Fired  an  echoing  shot  of  alarm. 

With  fierce  surprise  in  their  fearless  eyes 
The  camp  awoke  to  arm. 

They  ran  for  their  tethered  horses, 

And  flying  arrow  and  ball 
Fell'd  some  of  them  near,  while  other, 

At  the  neighing  goal  must  fall. 

Yet  the  many  in  safety  mounted, 
And,  swarming  like  angry  bees, 

Spurred,  yelling  and  charging  with  fury, 
On  the  deadly  cotton-wood  trees. 

But,  meeting  a  flight  of  arrows, 
The  squadron  divided  in  twain  ; 

For  some  of  the  steeds  were  wounded, 
And  some  of  the  riders  slain. 

Each  brave  bore  a  petted  rifle, 
An  iron  friend  true  and  tried ; 

And  he  aimed  it  across  the  saddle 
As  he  rode  on  his  horse's  side. 


DANDELION  AND  TIGER-LILY.  205 

Each  face  was  striped  with  vermilion, 

And  plumes  and  blankets  were  red; 
The  sun  rose  savage  and  fiery, 

And  dark  as  the  pools  by  the  dead. 

But  the  Utes  and  Navajos  fiercely 

Resisted  the  charge  of  the  foe, 
Tho'  the  sting  of  Apache  rifles 

Laid  many  a  warrior  low. 

Wherever  the  war  blazed  densely 

The  pale-face  battling  rode ; 
His  roused,  swift  blood  was  a  risen  flood, 

And  his  gray  eyes  burned  and  glowed. 

Two  frowning  storm-clouds,  meeting 

With  volleying  bursts  of  fire, 
Clash  loud  with  bellowing  thunder, 

And  the  strife  is  vivid  and  dire. 

So  clashed  the  band  of  defenders 

With  their  fell  Apache  foe, 
And  the  rifle-shots  rolled  and  thundered 

Through  the  canyon  to  and  fro. 

Now,  from  her  heights  descending, 

Came  Victory,  flushed  and  proud, 
And  hovered  over  the  battle 

Like  sunshine  over  the  cloud. 

She  led  the  charging  Apaches, 

As  if  fain  to  become  their  guide  ; 
But,  when  doubting  they  stood  at  the  verge  of  the  wood, 

She  ran  to  their  enemies'  side. 

Long,  long  in  the  wood  raged  the   battle, 
For  the  foemen  fought  hand  to  hand. 


206  DANDELION  AND   TIGER-LILY. 

When  the  Navajos  once  retreated, 
The  unyielding  Utes  made  a  stand. 

They  pressed  the  baffled  Apaches 
From  the  wood  to  the  open  plain, 

And  fired  at  the  red  invasion 
From  ghastly  ramparts  of  slain. 

The  pale-face,  as  in  a  vision, 

Saw  Victory  waiting  near, 
A  brilliant,  masterful  goddess, 

Majestic,  brave,  and  austere. 

She  carried  the  branch  of  a  palm-tree, 
And  laurel  leaves  wreathed  her  head ; 

There  were  praise  and  joy    in  her  coming, 
But  her  steps  with  slaughter  were  red. 

Her  sandals  were  gold,  and  her  garment 
To  the  movement  of  limb  was  free, 

While  her  face  for  its  firmness  and  patience 
Was  honor  and  glory  to  see. 

The  pale-face  glanced  at  his  shoulder, 
And  knew  for  the  first  that  it  bled ; 

But  he  still  to  the  foe  dealt  carnage  and  woe, 
Tho'  his  steed  at  his  feet  lay  dead. 

He  cheered  as  he  saw  the  Apaches 

Disordered  flee  to  the  plain ; 
Yet  they  turned,  with  a  desperate  rally, 

And  wildly  re-charged ;  but  in  vain. 

For  the  Utes  and  Navajos,  maddened, 
Were  tireless  to  do  and  to  dare, 

And  hurled,  from  the  steeds  advancing, 
The  might  and  main  of  despair. 


DANDELION  AND   TIGER-LILY.  207 

The  pale-face  saw  Victory  running 

From  one  to  the  opposite  side, 
As  if  at  a  loss,  in  the  turmoil  and  toss, 

With  whom  it  were  right  to  abide. 

But  while  the  few  scathless  Apaches 

Still  doggedly  held  to  the  fight, 
Above  and  between  the  two  forces 

Victory  paused  in  her  flight. 

She  stooped,  her  sandal  to  fasten, 

And  her  right  hand  reached  and  found 

Her  raised  right  foot ;  but  the  movement 
Had  swerved  her  body  around. 

She  staggered ;   and,  losing  her  balance, 

As  on  one  foot  poised  she  stood, 
She  fell  as  a  gift  to  her  lovers 

That  fought  on  the  edge  of   the  wood. 

Giving  palm  and  crown  to  the  pale-face, 

He  felt  on  his  cheek  her  breath ; 
But  he  sank  to  the  earth  in  darkness, 

And  lay  by  the  river  of  death. 

0  sister  to  Strength  and  Valor, 

And  daughter  of  Titan  and  Styx, 
Was  it  well,  with  this  draught  of  thy  nectar, 
So  bitter  a  potion  to  mix? 

Was  it  done  to  avenge  the  spirit 

With  golden  semblance  of  hair, 
For  that  the  new  love  of  her  lover 

Was  more  than  her  heaven  could  bear  ? 


208  DANDELION  AND  TIGER-LILY. 


VI. 

The  guest  of  the  proud  alcalde, 

That  fell  in  the  surly  fray, 
In  the  dismal,  ghostly  silence 

On  the  shore  by  the  river  lay. 

No  light  in  the  night  about  him 

Showed  either  earth  or  sky, 
While  beneath  was  a  deeper  darkness, 

With  darkness  weltering  by. 

It  seemed  to  him  there  by  the  river 
That  a  thousand  years  had  passed, 

When,  dim  and  afar,  a  glimmering  star 
Pierced  the  black  shadow  at  last. 

The  star  waxed  larger  and  brighter, 
And  shone  in  one  broadening  ray 

That  sharply  parted  the  darkness, 
But  scattered  it  never  away. 

As  the  light  of  a  boat  on  the  water 
Sends  down  a  dagger-like  gleam, 

The  light  of  this  boat  of  heaven 
Pierced  deathward  its  silvery  beam. 

And  a  spirit  of  light  and  beauty, 

Clothed  in  sanctified  white, 
Emerged  from  the  star,  and  descended 

The  depths  of  the  desolate  night. 

She  came  on  the  ray,  with  no  movement 
Of  wing,  or  of  foot  or  hand, 

And  was  borne,  by  her  calm  volition, 
From  the  bright  to  the  shadowy  land. 


DANDELION  AND   TIGER-LILY.  209 

She  was  white  as  the  downy  spirit 

Of  the  dandelion  flower, 
And  seemed  as  if  lightly  wafted 

From  the  lonely  Atlantic  bower. 

About  her  head  a  nimbus 

Of  golden,  floating  rays 
Was  the  glorious  hair  that  the  angels  wear, 

To  the  dreamer's  enraptured  gaze. 

That  templed  and  palaced  city, 

Her  thoughts,  with  her  past  in  fee, 
In  her  soft  blue  eyes  was  mirrored, 

Like  Venice  in  azure  sea. 

The  spirit  stood  over  the  dreamer 

In  the  glow  of   the  star-sent  light, 
And  tenderly  low  was  her  voice,  and  its  flow 

As  a  song's  on  the  water  at  night : 

"  0  loved  one  that  still   dost  wander 

The  whirled  earth's  dreary  round, 
I  lament  thee  here  by  the  river, 

Life's  uttermost  mundane  bound. 

"  I  lament  thy  painful  danger 

And  the  ebb  of  thy  gentle  blood, 
And  grieve  that  thy  fate  hath  brought  thee 

So  close  to  the  sorrowful  flood. 

"  I  looked  from  the  star  and  beheld  thee 

With  the  maiden  of  midnight  hair, 
And  to  see  thine  arms  enfold  her 

Was  a  bitterness  hard  to  bear. 

"  To  see  thine  arms  about  her 

To  thy  troth  and  my  love  seemed  wrong ; 
14 


210  DANDELION  AND   TIGER^LILY. 

While  the  feeling  that  I  was  forgotten 
Trailed  like  a  serpent  along. 

"  By  thee,  whom  I  love,  I  was  wounded, 

Tho'  the  suffering  left  no  scar ; 
But  I  wished  thee  to  die,  and  to  meet  me  on  high 

In  yonder  luminous  star. 

"  Experience  broadens  forever ; 

And  the  selfish  dross  and  the  clay 
In  the  crucible  of  that  moment 

Were  purged  from  my  love  away. 

"  For  soon  I  fully  forgave  thee ; 

The  love  that  is  pure  is  wide  ; 
And  I  know  that  my  joy  will  deepen 

When  thou  art  wed  to  thy  bride. 

"  But  the  Powers  of  the  Universe  ever 
Hold  the  cause  of  the  wronged  in  trust, 

And  repay  with  an  equal  evil 
Whatever  they  deem  unjust. 

"  Yet  fate,  that   I  fought,  to  save  thee 
From  the  path  that  thou  would'st  pursue, 

Hath  carried  thy  life  through  the  perilous  strife, 
And  given  thee  victory  too. 

"  Thy  hurt  is  the  retribution 

For  that  I  was  wounded  sore ; 
But  thy  fate  now  draws  thee  backward 

To  life  and  the  light  once  more." 

Thus  she  spoke,  and  ascended  softly 

The  silvery  path  of  the  ray, 
As  the  soul  of  the  dandelion 

At  a  breath  is  lifted  away. 


DANDELION  AND   TIGER-LILY.  211 

And  the  star  and  the  darkness  faded 
In  light  that  seemed  suddenly  born, 

As  the  stars  of  the  firmament  vanish 
In  the  opulent  gift  of  morn. 


vn. 

Looking  down  on  the  tiger-lilies 
That  grew  in  the  court  beneath, 

Sat  the  joy  of  the  kind  alcalde, 
Twining  a  delicate  wreath  — 

A  wreath  of  love  for  her  lover, 
Of  endearing  thoughts  and  dreams, 

The  redolent  flowers  that  the  sunniest  hours 
Bring  forth  with  their  ardent  beams. 

For  the  faithful  Navajo  wildly 
That  day  appeared  at  the  door, 

And  told,  to  the  pale  astonished, 
His  tale  of  battle  and  gore. 

There  had  been,  of  the  Utes  and  his  people, 

A  daring  moiety  slain; 
But  never  a  score  of  Apaches 

Escaped  from  the  canyon's  plain. 

The  pale-face  fought  like  the  giants 
That,  of  old,  hurled  bowlders  down, 

And  he  with  his  brave,  red  comrades 
Was  riding  back  to  the  town. 

But  he  and  others  were  wounded, 
And  some  of  them  scarce  alive : 

It  might  be  midnight  or  morrow 

Ere  the  burdened  troop  would  arrive. 


212  DANDELION  AND   TIGER-LILY. 

The  good  alcalde's  daughter 

Sat  rapt  in  a  waking  dream, 
And  was  borne,  in  her  song  of  the  brave  and  strong, 

On  melody's  plaintive  stream : 


THEY   ABE   BRINGING  THE   WOUNDED   HOME. 

They  are  bringing  the  wounded  home 

From  the  field  of  havoc  afar ; 
The  feet  of  the  horses  are  slow ; 

But  my  love  is  the  light  of  a  star, 
And  crosses  the  distance  between. 

I  look  on  my  loved  one's  face, 
That  is  paled  by  a  crimson  loss : 

If  he  die,  I  would  be  in  his  place. 

They  are  bringing  the  wounded  home ; 

But  Victory's  glittering  wings 
Enlighten  the  honored  return, 

And  the  heart  in  my  bosom  sings ; 
For  my  lover  is  brave  and  true, 

And  fought  like  a  king  in  the  fray : 
He  rose  as  the  sun  in  his  might, 

And  the  battle-mist  vanished  away. 

They  are  bringing  the  wounded  home ; 

But  the  print  of  the  hoofs  is  red. 
O  steed  of  my  lover,  be  strong, 

And  warily,  tenderly  tread. 
Bear  him  safely  home  to  my  arms, 

As  lightly  as  waves  bear  the  foam. 
To  healing  and  waiting  and   hope, 

They  are  bringing  my  hero  home. 


The  loving  melody  ended 

In  the  low,  dim  glow  of  the  west ; 


THE   GIANT  SPIDER.  213 

But  the  singer's  fears,  like  darkness, 
Gloomed  in  her  passionate  breast. 

A  trample  of  hoofs  at  midnight 

Was  heard  in  the  plaza  below, 
And  the  town,  for  the  fortunate  victors, 

Was  quickly  with  welcome  aglow. 

The  jubilant  bells  rang  music 

From  the  belfry  holy  and  high, 
And  waves  of  huzzas  surged  upward, 

While  bonfires  lighted  the  sky. 

For  the  guest  and  the  tiger-lily 

Soon  came  betrothal  and  feast, 
And  the  service  was  said,  when  the  lovers  were  wed, 

By  the  bride's  good  omen,  the  priest. 


THE  GIANT  SPIDER. 

PART    FIRST. 

OF  the  strict  god  called  Science,  in  my  youth 
I  had  enthusiasm  and  a  gift. 
About  the  lives  of  winged  and  creeping  things 
I  was  most  curious ;  and  having  heard 
That  in  gray  Caffa,  or  its  ancient  tombs, 
A  giant  spider  balked  the  snares  of  men, 
Thither  I  went,  and  in  the  city  dwelt. 

The  simple  folk  wagged  heads  incredulous 
Of  what  I  asked  to  know ;  but  ere  the  moon, 
A  crescent  at  my  coming,  changed  to  full, 
I  chanced,  at  sunset,  on  a  fisherman 
Leaning  against  his  stranded  prow  :  he  looked 


214  THE   GIANT  SPIDER. 

As  gray  and  melancholy  as  the  sea. 

In  answer  to  my  question,  which  had  trod 

On  smiling  salutation's  awkward  heels, 

He  said  that  he  had  seen  my  quest's  desire. 

He  thought  the  spider  larger  than  a.  man, 

And  that  the  cord  it  spun  might  serve  for  rope 

To  hoist  the  boat's  lateen  impatience  with. 

At  night  belated  on  the  tumuli 

That  make  the  hillside  sloping  to  the  shore 

A  page  of  raised,  archaeological  words 

For  the  blind  gropers  of  to-day  to  read, 

He  entered  wearily  an  empty  tomb, 

And  slept  therein,  until  defeated  night, 

Warding  the  thrown  spears  of  advancing  day 

With  the  round  world's  upheld,  emblazoned  shield, 

Retreated,  facing  its  continual  war. 

So  seemed  the  conflict  in  his  dream :  he  woke, 

And  found  that  in  thick  cords  he  lay  ensnared ; 

But  reached  his  knife,  and  slowly  cut  them  through. 

Then,  from  the  lighted  outlet  of  the  tomb, 

A  horror  fled  on  sideways-working  legs. 

Back  from  the  beach,  and  nestling  in  a  glen, 
A  vine-clad  cottage,  under  heavy  eaves, 
Looked  seaward  with  a  set,  expectant  gaze, 
As  some  lone  watcher  with  hand-shaded  eyes 
Looks  thither  for  the  unreturning  sail. 
Here  dwelt  my  helper  to  the  spidery  news. 
Trees,  and  a  varied  garden  full  of  flowers, 
Sequestered  and  perfumed  the  verdant  cot. 
Like  Ahab  in  his  house  of  ivory, 
Dining  on  tasteful  pleasures  rich  and  rare, 
The  bee,  in  casual  pollen  robed  and  crowned, 
Sipped  in  the  snowy  lily's  palace  hall. 
And  there  lay  yellow  lilies  strewn  about, 
As  if  the  place  had  been  the  banquet  grove 
Of  Shishak,  king  of  Egypt;  for  the  flowers 


THE   GIANT  SPIDER.  215 

Were  like  the  cups  of  gold  that  Solomon 

Wrought  for  the  service  of  the  only  God. 

Out  of  the  cottage,  through  the  garden  came, 

Like  spring,  but  breathing  a  diviner  air, 

A  maiden  with  a  violet  in  her  hand. 

"  This  is  my  daughter,"  said  the  fisherman. 

Her  jacket  glistened  with  a  golden  fringe ; 

The  hound-like  sea-breeze,  romping  by  her  side, 

Caught  up  her  sash,  and  let  it  fall  again ; 

Her  broidered  skirt  drooped  loosely  to  her  knees ; 

The  silken,  Turkish  trousers  hung  below, 

Their  fullness  at  the  ankles  gathered  in ; 

But  the  red,  toe-curved  shoes  betrayingly 

Left  her  arched  insteps  naked  as  the  moon. 

A  scarf  enswathed  her  head,  and  masked  her  face ; 

But  large,  dark  eyes  looked  forth,  and  in  their  depths 

I  viewed  a  soul  of  tenderness  and  truth. 

So  first  I  met  this  unexpected  May, 

On  the  Cimmerian  Bospore's  fateful  shore. 

I  saw  light  laughter  dancing  in  her  eyes 

At  my  mistaken  uses  of  their  tongue. 

We  lingered  round  the  cot  a  flowery  hour, 

Then  entered,  and,  refreshed  with  grateful  fare, 

Made  music  an  occasion  for  delay. 

We  parted  in  the  garden  under  boughs, 

And  as  I  briskened  homeward,  light  with  hope, 

I  still  beheld  her  softly-speaking  eyes, 

Which  in  my  heart  shone  down  like  two  clear  stars 

Set  in  the  boundless  heaven  of  her  soul. 

Thenceforth,  day  after  day,  I  went  to  meet 
The  dark-eyed  daughter  of  the  fisherman. 
She  welcomed  me  beneath  her  trustful  roof ; 
The  scarf,  that  vailed  the  splendor  of  her  face, 
She  drew  away,  and  laid  her  hands  in  mine. 
Her  eyes  were  diamond  portals  arched  and  pure, 
And  Sleep  their  silken  latches  softly  closed 


216  THE   GIANT  SPIDER. 

When,  couched  beneath  his  poppy  parachute, 
He  wooed  her,  leaning  from  his  dusky  car. 
As  angels  issue  out  of  heaven's  gates, 
So,  swift  and  bright,  her  glances,  full  of  love, 
Streamed  from  the  sunny  portals  of   her  souL 
If  painter  or  if  sculptor  should  behold, 
Upon  a  summit  of  that  spiritual  world 
He  treads  with  visionary,  faltering  feet. 
Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity  in  outward  forms, 
And  give  them  concrete  likeness  in  one  face, 
I  know  that  it  would  be  a  face  like  hers. 

Yet  she  at  times  was  sad  when  I  was  near, 

And  when,  embracing  her,  I  asked  the  cause, 

She  said  she  sorrowed  at  their  low  estate, 

At  fortune  dwindled  low,  and  at  the  yoke 

Their  people  chafed  their  necks  in,  on  the  hills. 

Her  father  was  a  great  Circassian   chief; 

But  here,  in  dress  and  work,  he  dwelt  disguised, 

Till  he  again  could  lead  his  tribes  to  war, 

And  raise  the  heel  that  ground  them  to  the  dust. 

To  confidence  there  was,  in  my  reply, 

A  silken  clew:  on  this  at  once  she  seized, 

And  said  that  unknown  evil  threatened  her. 

Forerunning  shadows  of  approaching  doom 

Darkened  the  parks  and  gardens  of  her  mind, 

So  late  familiar  with  the  feet  of  joy. 

She  felt  she  was  entangled  in  a  web ; 

For  tightening  cords  were  drawn  about  her  life, 

And  not  on  any  side  would  give  release. 

I  tarried  late,  and  told  her  of  my  past, 

And  of  the  monster  I  had  come  to  find ; 

But  now,  even  she,  of  whom  I  had  not  dreamed, 

Around  my  heart  had  cast  a  web  of  love. 

She  said  that  she  too  in  this  web  was  bound, 

But  could  escape  not  from  that  darker  web 

Woven  about  her  by  the  spider,  Fate. 


THE   GIANT  SPIDER.  217 

Our  hearts  renewed,  we  parted  ere  the  dawn, 

And,  at  our  lips,  love  met  deliciously 

His  clinging  counterpart,  the  answering  love. 

As  from  the  garden  shore  I  homeward  went, 

I  saw  against  the  sky  a  distant  hill, 

Whose  outlines,  merged  in  darkness,  took  the  shape 

Of  an  immense  black  spider :  its  raised  arms, 

That  I  remembered  were  by  day  two  trees, 

Caught  vainly  at  a  gleaming,  firefly  star. 

PART    SECOND. 

An  early  knuckle  smote  against  my  door. 

I  rose  and  opened  to  the  fisherman  ; 

For  it  was  he  —  his  face  as  white  as  death's, 

His  eyes  insanely  glaring,  and  his  hair 

Tossed  up  as  if  abhorrent  with  his  fear. 

"  Come,  hasten  with  me,"  were  his  boding  words. 

We  ran  along  the  morning  road  and  shore, 

And  breathless  reached  the   silence  of  his  house. 

He  led  me  to  his  daughter's  vacant  couch. 

The  single  window  of  the  favored  room 

Was  open,  and  I  looked  out  to  the  ground. 

On  the  low  cottage's  gray,  crannied  side 

A  vine  with  tapering  fingers  clung  and  crept, 

And,  latticing  the  window,  curtained  it 

With  drooping,  heart-shaped  leaves :  but  what  was  this 

That,  fastened  to  the  ledge,  trailed  to  the  earth  ? 

A  glutinous  rope,  twisted  with  five  strong  strands. 

Fright,  like  a  wild  wind,  rushed  on  me,  and  whirled 

And  bore  me  like  a  leaf,  as  I,  with  bloodless  lips, 

Gasped  out,  "  The  Spider !  " 

What  was  best  to  do  ? 
We  saw  strange  vestiges  along  the  beach ; 
But  these  were  lost  beside  a  marshy  dell 
Where  all  trace  had  an  end.     The  long  day  through, 


218  THE  GIANT  SPIDER. 

Up  from  the  dell  we  searched  among  the  tombs ; 
But  unrewarded,  when  the  sun  was  quenched. 
Sat  wearily  down,  and  gave  ourselves  to  tears. 
Then  by  a  slender  thread  the  darkness  dropped, 
And,  like  an  awful  spider,  o'er  the  earth 
Crawled  with  gaunt  legs  of  shadow :  soon  we  rose 
And  sought  our  homes,  to  meet  again  at  dawn. 

The  night  was  warm,  and  with  the  window  raised, 
I  sat,  and  Job-like  cursed  my  natal  day 
And,  filled  with  grief  and  horror,  wrung  my  hands. 
Without  a  light,  the  house  in  darkness  stood. 
My  back  was  toward  the  window :  something  shut 
The  puny  sheen  of  starlight  from  the  room. 
The  Thing,  a  monstrous  shape,  was  with  me  there ; 
Its  two  hard  arms  were  thrown  about  my  waist, 
And  in  them  I  was  carried  lightly  forth. 
Benumbed,  I  had  no  voice  to  make  a  cry, 
Nor  moved  to  cast  my  foe  off,  bound  by  fear 
No  less  than  by  the  giant  spider's  arms. 
Then  I  grew  glad  thinking  I  should  be  borne 
To  the  dull  creature's  web,  and  there,  mayhap, 
Learn  the  dread  fate  of  her  I  loved    so  well. 
Ere  long  we  neared  the  liill  whose  two  tall   trees, 
Like  spider's  arms,  elutched  at  the  fire-fly  stars. 
Up  the  stark  cliff  we  went,  and  crossed  the  web 
Just  as  the  full  moon  bloomed  upon  the  verge, 
And  lilied  white  the  Panticapean  vale. 

The  funnel  of  the  web  was  in  the  mouth 

Of  a  vast  tomb,  whose  outside,  hewn  on  rock, 

Outlined  a  Gorgon's  face  with  jaws  agape  — 

Medusa,  Stheno,  or  Euryale, 

Changed  to  the  stone  that,  in  the  elder  time, 

She  changed  the  sons  of  men  who  looked  on  her. 

Then,   through  the  funnel,  into  the  tomb  we  went. 

Round  me  the  spider  quickly  drew  his  cords. 


THE   GIANT  SPIDER.  219 

Binding  my  arms,  while  I  resistlessly 
Drooped  on  the  rock,  inured  to  ugly  fear. 
I  fancied  that  I  now  was  safe  till  dawn. 
If  I  could  use  my  hands,  I  might  lay  hold 
On  club  or  stone,  and  wield  a  chance  for  life. 
Pinioned,  I  drew  my  arms  along  my  sides, 
And  struggled  till  at  last  I  wrenched  them  free ; 
But  both  hung  harrowed  by  the  twisted  bonds 
That  with  my  blood  were  wet. 

The  dread  night  drag'd ; 
But  at  the  glimpses  of  auroral  gray, 
A  faint  moan  woke  an  echo  in  the  tomb. 
The  echo,  like  a  pitying  answer,  came 
For  solace  to  the  moan ;  the  light  increased, 
And  I  descried,  not  far  from  where  I  lay, 
A  maiden  sitting:   of  her  thick,  long  hair 
She  made  a  raven  pillow,  as  she  leaned 
Against  the  gloom  of  that  memorial  wall. 
My  heart  threw  wide  to  her  its   doors,  my  arms. 
She  too,  as  I  had  been,  was  closely  bound ; 
But  I  undid,  in  part,   her  sticky  cords. 

The  sun  came  up  and  spread  his  cloth  of  gold 

Over  the  world  :   we  saw  the  vale  and  sea, 

And  there  the  ancient  city's  skeleton 

Protrude,  with  rib-like  columns,  from  its  grave. 

We  watched  the  folk,  mere  ants,  move  here  and  there 

Within  the  modern  town,    and  pointed  out, 

Not  knowing  we  should  enter  it  again, 

The  billowy  grove  wherein  her  cottage  stood. 

Two  thousand  years  ago  this  outspread  sea 
Was  whitened  by  the  snowy  flakes  of  trade 
That  fly  from  land  to  land  along  the  tides. 
When  Athens  was,  and  when  her  scholars  cut, 
With  thoughts  unrusting,  their  exalted  names 


220  THE   GIANT  SPIDER. 

On  the  stone   tablet  of  slow-footed  fame, 
A  city  flourished  here,  and  from  the  gates 
Its  thrifty,  wheaten  surplus  sent  abroad. 
For  centuries,  like  some  majestic  star, 
The  city  waxed  and  waned ;  now  shining  large 
With  Eastern  splendor  and  magnificence, 
Now  into  occultation  fading  back, 
With  naught  but  rums  of  its  greatness  left. 
It  felt  the  undermining  wrongs  of  peace, 
And  was  acquainted  with  the  wrong  of  war, 
And  these  destroyed  its  power ;  for  all  wrong 
Crawls  like  a  giant  spider  through  the  world, 
And  blights  the  cities  where  it  weaves  its  web, 
And  buries  men  in  tombs  of  dark  despair. 

While  we  looked  forth  on  this  past-haunted  view, 

We  saw  the  subtle  spider  throw  his  cord 

Over  an  eagle  tangled  in  the  web. 

With  what  of  strength  was  left,  the  eagle  fought, 

And  spread  one  wing,  and  darted  its  sharp  beak. 

At  last  the  spider  seized  it  by  the  neck 

With  his  serrated  claws,  which  grew  like  horns, 

And  bit  it  dead ;  then  plucked  the  vanquished  plumes, 

And  sucked  the  warm  blood  from  the  sundered  ends. 

This  showed  us  that  the  monster  brought  us  here 

To  be  a  hideous  banquet,  and  that  one 

Must  needs  be  near  and  see  the  other  slain. 

The  web  was  like  the  sail  of  some  large  ship, 
And  reached  out  from  the  Gorgon's  open  mouth 
To  boughs  of  blighted  trees  on  either    side. 
Birds  were  caught  in  it ;  and,  about  the  place 
Wherein  the  spider  hid  to  watch  for  prey, 
Their  bones  lay  bleaching  in  the  fervid  sun. 
On  the  strong  web  the  winds  laid  violent  hands, 
And  tugged  amain ;    but  had  no  sinew  knit 
To  tear  it,  or  divorce  it  from  its  place. 


THE   GIANT  SPIDER.  221 

The  rain  left  on  it,  when  the  sun  came  out, 
Dyed  the  vast  cloth  with  gay,  prismatic  hues, 
And  made  it  glitter  like  the  silken  wings 
Of  Cleopatra's  barge. 

We  felt  quite  sure 

The  eagle's  death  bequeathed  us  lease  of  life. 
In  hope  to  find  an  object  of  defense, 
We  closely  searched  about :  the  tomb  was  strange, 
And  secret  save  to  the   spider  and  to  us. 
A  rich  sarcophagus  stood  in  the  midst, 
Of  deftly  inlaid  woods,  or  carved,  or  bronzed ; 
Within,  a  skeleton  (its  white  skull  crowned 
With  gold  bestarred  with  diamonds)  chilled  my  blood. 
A  bronze  lamp,  cast  to  represent  a  beast, 
The  triple-polled  conceiver  of  the  Sphinx, 
Lay  on  the  floor,  and  from  its  lion's  mouth 
The  flame  had  issued  like  the  flame  of  life 
That  flickered  and  went  out  from  the  grim  king. 
A  target  hung  above,  and  on  it  clashed 
Trojan  and  Greek,  adverse  as  right  and  wrong. 
About  lay  cups  of  onyx  set  in  gold. 
On  conic  jars  were  bacchanalian  scenes : 
Nude,  chubby  bacchi,  grotesque,  leering  fauns  — 
All  linked  beneath  the  cluster-laden  vine  ; 
And  in  the  jars  were  rings  and  flowers  of  gold. 
We  found  twin  ear-drops,  sapphire  Gemini, 
Metallic  mirrors,  and  a  statuette 
Of  amorous  Dido  naked  to  the  waist. 
All  these  we  found,  but  nothing  for  defense, 
Which  now  had  been  of  greater  worth  than  these. 
On  desert  sands  a  crust  is  more  than  gold, 
In  peril  arms,  and  on  the  sea  a  plank ; 
The  moment  gives  the  value  to  a  thing. 
Hopeless  of  any  weapon  to  repel 
The  loathsome,  crawling  danger,  we  embraced, 
And  kissed  with  silent  kisses  mixed  with  tears, 


222  THE  GIANT  SPIDER. 

And  waited  for  the  end.     Then,  for  light  things, 
Like  gnats  that  dance  in  air  before  a  storm, 
Rise  hi  the  mind  in  moments  of  suspense, 
I  thought  of  Italy's  tarantula 
Whose  bite  is  cured  by  music,  so  they  say, 
And  wondered  whether  love,  which  ever  seems 
Like  tenderer  music  than  sweet  sounds  afford, 
Had  power  to  heal  us  from  this  spider's  wounds. 

As  day  was  sinking  to  his  crimson  death, 

With  back  to  us,  the  savage  monster  crouched 

Upon  the  cliff  at  our  pale  prison's  mouth. 

His  hateful  body  was  a  fathom  long ; 

Two  parts  it  had  —  the  fore  part,  head  and  breast, 

The  hinder  part,  the  trunk  :  the,  first  was  black, 

The  last  was  furry  with  short,  yellow  hair. 

Eight  sprawling  legs  to  the  tough  breast  adhered  ; 

Eight  eyes,  that  never  closed,  stared  from  the  head, 

Behind  their  windows  of  transparent  nail. 

His  pincers  stood  between  his  foremost  eyes, 

Were  toothed  like  saws,  were  sharp  and  venomous, 

And  on  their  ends  had  claws ;  two  arms  stretched  out 

From  the  mailed  shoulders,  and  with  these  he  caught 

His  tangled  prey,  or  guided  what  he  spun. 

Slowly  about  he  turned,  and  glared  at  us, 

Working  his  arms,  and  opening  his  claws, 

Then  suddenly  moved  toward  us  in  attack. 

Dismayed,  we  fled  to  the  sepulchral  depths 

Where  darkness  dwelt,  and  where,  as  Heaven  willed, 

My  foot  on  some  hard  substance  struck  surprised. 

Stooping,  I  grasped,  and  found  with  boundless  joy 

That  sharp,  unpitying  fang  of  war,  a  sword ! 

I  rushed  upon  the  spider  as  he  came, 

And  with  one  blow  cut  off  his  baneful  head. 

Awhile  he  writhed,  but,  at  another  stroke, 

Drew  up  the  eight  long  legs  and  two  thick  arms, 


POPL1COLA.  223 

And,  rolling  over  on  his  useless  back, 
Gave  up  to  Geryon  his  Hadean  ghost. 

The  treasure  of  the  tomb  soon  brought  us  wealth, 
And  the  great  Tzar,  hearing  our  story  told, 
Sent  us  rich  wedding-gifts  of  silk  and  pearls. 


POPLICOLA. 

WHEN  Roman  virtue  was  aroused, 

And  had  deposed  the  kings, 
Looking  on  all  their  pomp  and  pride 

As  unbecoming  things ; 
When  lustful  Tarquin's  might  was  crushed 

By  all-avenging  Fate, 
A  consul  named  Valerius, 
Wise  Publius  Valerius, 

Became  the  head  of  state. 

Against  the  sky,  upon  a  hill 

Before  the  forum,  rose 
His  ample,  lordly  dwelling-house, 

In  marble's  white  repose. 
Rome's  grave  assembly,  gazing  up, 

Soon  made  of  it  a  foe ; 
For,  tho'  mistrust  may  not  be  wise, 
They  thought  the  house  cast  jealous  eyes 

On  what  was  done  below. 

To  see  come  forth  Valerius 

With  his  attendant  train, 
Their  potent  rods  and  axes  borne 

As  if  in  high  disdain ; 
To  see  them  then  descend  the  hill 

Before  the  forum  wide, 


224  POPL1COLA. 

To  doubt  and  fear,  that  prate  of  woe, 
It  was  an  ostentatious  show 
To  regal  pomp  allied. 

It  was  indeed  a  stately  sight, 

Of  which  a  bard  might  sing; 
But  men  would  have  that  it  was  meant 

To  shadow  forth  the  king. 
They  said,  too,  that  the  dwelling-house, 

The  robed  hill's  showy  crown, 
Was  lordlier  than  the  palace, 
That  the  consul,  out  of  malice, 

Had  sternly  leveled  down. 

Love's  shadow  is  dark  jealousy, 

And  jealousy  knows  fear ; 
For  men  who  love  their  country  much, 

And  hold  their  freedom  dear, 
Are  jealous  of  the  tendencies 

In  him  they  trust  with  power, 
And  mark  them  in  bis  acts,  lest  he, 
On  their  devoted  liberty, 

Should  bring  a  trying  hour. 

But  when  the  wise  Valerius 

Knew  what  suspicion  said, 
And  that  the  people,  whom  he  loved, 

Upon  him  looked  with  dread, 
He  sent  for  many  laborers, 

And,  in  a  single  night, 
Pulled  down  that  pale  magnificence, 
His  stately,  marble-walled  offense, 

And  blotted  it  from  sight. 

The  people  in  the  morning  came, 
And  saw  that  it  was  gone, 

The  dwelling-house  an  architect 
Had  lavished  beauty  on ; 


POPLICOLA.  225 

And  when  they  knew  it  was  destroyed 

For  words  that  they  had  said, 
They  truly  mourned,  as  if  it  were 
A  vestal,  or  a  senator, 

That  lay  untimely  dead. 

The  sight  of  it  was  lost  to  them 

They  felt  with  sense  of  shame, 
And  for  unfounded  jealousy 

They  held  themselves  to  blame. 
Through  these  light  mists  of  kind  regret 

Their  consul's  rising  star 
Shone  in  the  Roman  mental  sky 
Like  daily  Phoebus  mounting  high 

In  his  triumphal  car. 

Valerius  now  owned  no  roof; 

But  dwelt  with  gentle  friends 
Until  the  people,  with  respect, 

Had  hewn  him  stone  amends. 
They  built  the  doored  and  windowed  gift 

To  lodge  their  servant  in, 
All  seemly  to  their  rigid  will ; 
But  not  upon  the  haughty  hill 

Where  his  offense  had  been. 

They  bear  the  palm  and  rule  the  best 

Who  wish  to  truly  serve, 
And  nothing  from  this  meek  intent 

Could  make  the  consul  swerve. 
He  hoped  to  found  a  government 

Men  would  not  overturn, 
And  that  to  virtue  would  be  dear: 
He  made  it  pleasant,  pure,  and  near ; 
Not  distant,  proud,  and  stern. 

He  mingled  with  the  people  all 
To  learn  the  common  will, 
15 


226  POPLICOLA. 

And  ever  deemed  its  finer  sense 

His  duty  to  fulfill. 
He  was  familiar,  kind,  and  true 

To  every  one  that  came  ; 
He  strove  to  mete  out  justice  due; 
And  all  the  winds  of  heaven  blew 

The  trumpet  of  his  fame. 

Surrounded  by  his  civic  guard, 

He  to  the  forum  went, 
Whenever  the  assembly  met 

For  acts  of  government. 
On  entering  he  bowed  his  head, 

And,  to  the  left  and  right, 
His  axes  parted  from  his  rods, 
And  homaged,  as  it  were  the  gods, 

The  sovran  People's  might. 

Yet  was  the  man's  humility 

The  noble  means  he  took, 
Not,  as  men  thought,  to  dwarf  himself 

For  reputation's  book ; 
But  to  disarm  their  doubts  and  fears, 

So  quick  to  rise  and  frown  — 
To  give  the  factious  murmur  sleep, 
And,  by  a  wise  forbearance,  keep 

The  dragon,  envy,  down. 

For  envy  comes  from  ignorance, 

Which  sees  the  outward  show, 
And  lightly  thinks  of  heavy  cares 

That  with  high  office  go. 
Hence  bad  men  climb  to  power,  and  glut 

The  ways  that  lead  to  it. 
With  venal  hands  they  foul  its  stream, 
And  cause  reproach  to  make  it  seem 

For  moral  health  unfit. 


POPLICOLA.  227 

The  honor  of  Valerius 

Was  sweet  to  every  lip. 
He  gave  the  right  to  citizens 

To  sue  for  consulship  ; 
Yet  ere  he  would  a  colleague  take, 

Lest  one  might  thwart  the  cause, 
Or  bring  delay  where  none  should  be, 
He  built  a  house  for  Liberty, 

Of  just  and  equal  laws. 

He  made  it  death  to  seize  on  power 

Without  the  people's  leave. 
He  raised  offenders  one  more  hope 

Their  freedom  to  retrieve  ; 
The  sentence  that  the  consuls  gave 

The  people  might  relax  ; 
And,  brave  with  either  sword  or  pen, 
He  freed  the  poorer  citizen 

Of  an  excessive  tax. 

What  thus  from  his  authority 

He  wisely  took  away 
He  added  to  his  real  power, 

Which  in  the  people  lay ; 
For  they  submitted  willingly, 

And  showed  their  happy  state 
By  naming  him  Poplic-ola, 
Republican  Poplicola, 

Or  People-lover  Great. 

Poplicola !    Poplicola ! 

Reechoes  in  the  air. 
Across  the  silent  centuries 

I  hear  fame's  trumpet  blare ; 
Across  wide  wastes  of  slavery, 

Time's  dusty  deserts  vast, 
Across  the  heat,  the  dearth,  the  shame, 


228  POP  LI  COL  A. 

Comes  sounding  down  the  honored  name, 
From  out  the  ruined  past. 

I  see  its  way  along  the  years  ; 

I  see  how  pomp  and  pride 
Have  robbed  the  people  of  their  rights 

And  turned  the  truth  aside. 
In  crowned  oppression's  bloody  work 

To  rivet  fast  men's  chains, 
I  see  the  fight  for  freedom  sway, 
I  see  the  triumph  and  dismay, 

The  losses  and  the  gains. 

What  wonder  that  when,  sere  with  age, 

The  grand  old  Roman  died 
The  people  deeply  felt  the  debt 

They  owed  this  faithful  guide  ? 
The  flowers  he  found  on  freedom's  heights 

They  scattered  round  his  bier. 
The  shadow  of  his  loss  was  dark, 
For,  as  a  special  honor-mark, 

All  women  mourned  a  year. 

He  slept  entombed  in  Velia, 

Within  the  walls  of  Rome ; 
And  when,  of  his  posterity, 

One  reached  the  common  home, 
The  mourners  set  the  body  down 

Where  its  great  kinsman  lay. 
Then  held  a  torch  the  bier  beneath ; 
And  with  this  flower  from  honor's  wreath, 

They  bore  their  dead  away. 

They  showed    that  honor  follows  not 

From  sire  to  son  along. 
Few  men  can  rule  by  love  and  truth, 

The  most  have  ruled  by  wrong. 


THE  EMPERORS   MERCY.  229 

Not  birth,  but  nature,  makes  men  great ; 

True  greatness  is  divine. 
It  bursts  the  bars  of  humble  blood, 
And  streams  not  in  a  constant  flood 

Along  a  royal  line. 

O  Liberty !   that  on  our  land 

Hast  seemed  to  kindly  smile, 
Oh!  let  not  wealth  and  pride  of  place 

Men's  hearts  from  thee  beguile ; 
But  make  our  rulers  each  like  him 

Who  knew  thy  way  to  plan, 
Poplicola  Valerius, 
Republican  Valerius, 

In  very  truth  a  man  ! 


THE  EMPEROR'S   MERCY. 

WHEN  Theodosius,  who  ruled  the  laud, 

Had  laid  exactions,  deemed  too  hard  to  bear, 

On  Antioch,  angry  revolt  was  planned, 

And,  hoarsely  surging  to  the  public  square, 

The  folk  dashed  on  the  statues  of  the  crown, 

The  ruler's  and  his  wife's,  and  broke  them    down. 

But  when  the  tide  of  fury  ebbed  away, 
Upon  all  hearts  there  lay  a  stranded  dread ; 
The  people  sorrowed  for  their  deed  that  day, 
And  on  thought's  canvas  saw  their  danger  spread. 
A  somber  painter,  born  of  fault,  is  fear, 
That  magnifies  the  ills  it  makes  appear. 

So  Bishop  Flavianus,  strong  of  pen, 

In  truth  a  poet,  but  who  humbly  found 

That  he  of  greater  use  could  be  to  men 

In  preaching  Christ  than  if  with  laurel  crowned, 


230  THE  EMPERORS  MERCY. 

Left  Antioch,  and  hastened  on  his  way, 
The  ruler's  wrath  to  soften  and  allay. 

He  reached  Constantinople,  and  was  led 
Before  the  emperor,  who  heard  his  plea: 
"  We  place  a  wreath  on  even  the  wicked  dead  ; 
Since  wrong,  repented  of,  no  more  can  be, 
On  our  dead  wrong  let  now  thy  pardon  rest, 
Like  wreathen  roses  on  a  lifeless  breast." 

With  darkened  look  the  ruler  made  reply  : 

"  In  breaking  down  the  statues,  your  mad  throng 

Have  reared  another  to  the  angry  sky  — 

The  black,  colossal  statue  of  a  wrong ! 

This  shall  abide  the  fury  of  my  hate! 

I  am  resolved :  my  word  is  law  and  fate." 

With  saddened  soul  the  bishop  turned  away ; 
But,  knowing  that,  of  boys  with  harps,  a  choir 
Before  the  emperor  made  glad  the  day, 
While  he  reclined  at  meat,  there  came  desire, 
Through  these,  the  singers,  to  renew  his  plea, 
And  with  a  song  the  threatened  city  free. 

Straightway,  with  loving  care,  he  wrote  an  ode  — 
Glad  that,  at  last,  to  turn  the  wheel  of  use, 
The  sparkling  brook  of  his  clear  numbers  flowed. 
"  That  art  is  best,"  he  said,  "  which  can  induce 
To  serviceable  ends :  of  old,  art's  kings 
Were  fain  to  do  good  work  on  useful  things." 

The  rhyme  was  finished,  and  the  gliding  words 
Launched  on  a  sea  of  music,  whose  sweet  tone 
Was  like  the  twilight  notes  of  woodland  birds ; 
And  when  from  off  his  golden-curtained  throne, 
The  ruler  came  to  feast,  like  seraphim 
The  choir  with  harps  took  up  the  song  for  him. 


LOW  LIVES    WE  LED   OF  CARE  AND  SIN.        231 

They  sang  the  wrong  and  fears  of  Antioch, 
And  of  the  might  that  mercy  gives  to  kings ; 
They  woke,  with  fingers  swift,  a  flying  flock, 
The  fine  compassion  of  the  trembling  strings. 
The  ruler  cried,  "  Oh,  cease  your  plaintive  song, 
For  I  forgive  the  city  of  the  wrong !  " 


LOW  LIVES  WE  LED  OF  CARE  AND  SIN. 

Low  lives  we  led  of  care  and  sin, 
And  had  no  aim  but  that  to  win 

Our  brown  and  bitter  bread. 
Beside  a  mountain,  at  its  base, 
We  dwelt,  and  saw  its  passive  face, 

A  sphinx's,  overhead. 

We  could  not  read  a  meaning  there. 
To  our  dull  eyes,  what  rose  in  air 

Was  naught  but  rocks  and  trees. 
We  had  not  climbed  the  cloudy  height ; 
Enough  for  us  the  small  delight 

To  sit  betimes  at  ease. 

What  good  were  ours,  if  we  should  stand 
Upon  the  wind-swept  table-land, 

And  look  on  fields  below  ? 
We  sneered,  contented  in  the  vale ; 
We  had  nor  will  nor  wish  to  scale 

The  cliffs  where  cedars  grow. 

But  haply  on  a  genial  day, 

A  neighbor,  plodding  on   his  way, 

Saw,  at  the  sunset   hour, 
The  day-god  on  our  mountain  high 
Rest,  like  a  golden  butterfly 

Perched  on  an  azure  flower. 


232       LOW  LIVES    WE  LED  OF   CARE  AND  SIN. 

Our  least  impressions  have  their  use ; 
The  good  or  ill  that  they  produce 

Must  soon  or  late  hefall. 
And  our  observant  neighbor  said, 
"It  may  be  fertile  overhead 

Upon  the  mountain-wall." 

Forthwith  we  climbed   the  flinty  crags. 
And  boughs  and  vines  hung  like  the  flags 

Of  welcome  in  a  town. 
On  vernal  plains  we  wandered  by 
Clear  lakes  wherein  the  bending  sky 

Narcissus-like  looked  down. 

Even  the  grass  beneath  our  feet 

Was  somewhat  greener  and  more  sweet 

Than  that  which  grew  below. 
We  breathed  a  purer,  better  air ; 
Our  lives  seemed  wider  and  most  fair, 

And  earth  with  love  aglow. 

O  ye,  long  used  to  care  and  sin, 

Look  up !  take  heart !  and  strive  to  win 

A  high  and  noble   ground ! 
Think  not  that  Virtue  sits  alone, 
Withdrawn  on  peaks  of  ice  and  stone 

Where  only  thorns  abound. 

She  rather  has  the  mountain  dells 
Where,  with  her  kin,  in  peace  she  dwells. 

Her  sky  is  ever  fair ; 
And  in  her  pleasant,  quiet  meads 
The  flowers  of  fragrant  thoughts  and  deeds 

Enrich  the  healthful    air. 


THE  HOST'S  HUMILITY.  233 


THE   HOST'S   HUMILITY. 

HUMILITY  is  the  excess  of  love 

We  have  for  others  —  if  that  be  excess 

Which  He,  who  for  our  help  came  from  above 

And  wore  our  humbler  nature,  loved  to  bless ; 

But  Envy  is  the  coward  side  of  Hate, 

And  all  her  ways  are  bleak  and  desolate. 

Nathan,  a  wise  man,  who  had  nursed  with  care 

A  tree  of  trade  that  bore  sufficient  coin, 

Lived  not  alone  for  self,  but  thought  to  share 

His  wealth  with  others ;  so  at  once  to  join 

His  thought  to  action,  where  two  highways  crossed 

He  reared  a  palace,  fair  and  white  as  frost. 

Here,  food  he  laid,  and  smooth  wine  made  to  flow 
For  all  who  came  from  either  east  or  west ; 
Beggars  were  not  too  base  for  him  to  know, 
And  each  was  served  as  an  invited  guest ; 
And  when  at  last  there  came  the  parting  day, 
He  gave  them  gifts,  and  saw  them  on  their  way. 

From  these  mere  springs,  his    fame  in  rivers  flowed, 
And  proud  Mithridanes,  not  taking   heed 
That  charities,  when  done  for   praise,  corrode 
And  lose  their  virtue,  thought  that  each  good  deed 
He  too  might  do  and  win  as  high   renown, 
For  Nathan's  name  was  better  than  a  crown. 

So  he  too  built  a  palace,  wide  and  high, 
And  clad  it  with  the  banners  of  his  land  ; 
The  prosperous  towers  touched  the  golden  sky, 
The  cooling  fountains  tossed  on  either  hand  : 
And  this,  and  Nathan's  palace,  seemed  to  be 
Let  down  from  heaven  for  works  of  charity. 


234  THE  HOSTS  HUMILITY. 

But  proud  Mithridanes  was  envious  still, 

As  Nathan's  name  was  held  above  his  own ; 

And  soon  he  willed  to  go  to  him  and  kill 

The  generous  man,  that  he,  and  he  alone, 

Through  the  broad  world  might  win  the  fame  he  could 

For  hospitality  and  doing  good. 

See  how  vile  Envy  may  mislead  our  hearts, 
And  feed  us  with  unpalatable  sin ! 
Mithridanes  for  Nathan's  door  departs, 
And,  reaching  it,  with  peace  is  welcomed  in ; 
Even  a  parrot,  up  a  stairway  heard, 
Stabs  at  his  envy  with  a  friendly  word. 

But  ere  he  gained  that  house  munificent 
He  overtook  a  graybeard  on  the  road, 
And  said  to  him,  as  by  his  side  he  went, 
"  I  go  to  Nathan  and  his  praised  abode." 
"  I  am  his  servant,"  said  the  old  man  gray : 
"  I  will  ride  forward  with  you  on  your  way." 

This  man  was  Nathan,  tho'  unknown  to  him 

Whose  deadly  purpose  slumbered   in  his  breast ; 

And  often  in  the  park,  at  twilight  dim, 

They  met  thereafter,  one  with  gloom  oppressed, 

And  dealt  in  words  so  pleasing  and  so  true, 

That,  from  the  commerce,  wealth  of  friendship  grew 

Here,  in  the  green  seclusion  of  the  wood, 

The  proud  guest  told  the  frost-beard  that  he  came 

To  slay  his  envied  rival  great  and  good  — 

That,  furled  by  death,  the  banner  of  his  name 

No  more  should  over  hill  and  vale  be  sent 

As  the  most  noble  and  benevolent. 

"  That  you  may  do  the  deed  and  not  be  seen," 
Meek  Nathan  answered,  "at  the  bud  of  day 


THE  HOSTS  HUMILITY.  235 

Your  foe  will  walk  beneath  this  covert  green, 
And  you  may  fall  on  him,  and   be  away 
Before  his  death  is  bruited :  lest  in  wrath 
They  should  pursue  you,  flee  the  mountain-path." 

At  morn,  to  slay  the  host,  went  forth  the  guest, 
And  saw  the  old  man  walking  'neath  the  trees, 
The  friend  that  he  of  all  men  loved  the  best. 
"  Lo,  I  am  Nathan !  great  Mithridanes  ; 
Here,  where  the  heart  is,  pierce  me  to  the  hilt ; 
Pause  not  with  fear,  but  slay  me  if  thou  wilt." 

Then  at  his  feet  the  guest  fell  prone,  with  tears : 
"  My  dearest  father,  I  was  proud  and  base  ; 
Forgive  me,  for  remorse  in  after-years 
Will  rack  me,  when  I  think  upon  thy  face  ! 
No  more  my  envy  makes  a  foe  of  thee, 
For  I  behold  thy  vast  humility." 

"  Arise  !  "  said  Nathan.     "  Tho'  I  do  forgive, 

I  need  not ;  for,  in  wishing  to  excel, 

You  have  done  nothing  wrong ;  proud  monarchs  live 

Who,  to  be  great,  have  thought  it  wise  and  well 

To  slay  whole  armies  on  the  field  of  strife ; 

But  you  have  only  sought  my  humble  life." 

The  pleasant  jewel  of  good  Nathan's  face 
Shone  with  the  inborn  luster  of  his  soul, 
As  round  the  other's  neck,  with  loving  grace, 
His  friendly  arms  in  full  forgiveness    stole ; 
While  coward  Envy,  as  she  turned  to  fly, 
Envied  the  triumph  of  Humility. 


236  TO  RICHARD   GRANT   WHITE. 

TO  RICHARD  GRANT  WHITE, 

ON    READING   HIS    LIFE    OF   SHAKESPEARE. 

I  BEAD  your  life  of  Shakespeare  late ; 

The  clock,  swift-handed,  showed  the  hour 
Of  midnight  on  the  numbered  plate, 

And  yet  your  words  with  pleasant  power 
Held  my  attent  inviolate. 

I  seemed  to  be  in  Stratford  town, 
Our  Shakespeare's  English  Nazareth. 

I  saw  the  houses  thatched  and  brown, 

The  street  whose  squalor  brought  it  death. 

To  my  own  time  the  past  came  down. 

I  saw  the  Avon  wind  and  glide, 

And  Sir  Hugh  Clopton's  bridge  across, 

With  fourteen  arches  cool  and  wide, 
Deep-shadowed  in  the  water's  gloss, 

Like  care  that  spans  some  pleasure's  tide. 

And  still  the  present  seemed  to  me 

The  age  of  Queen  Elizabeth. 
And  on  the  wall  of  Trinity 

I  saw  the  painted  shape  of  Death  — 
The  rude,  tho'  strong,  Dance  Macabree. 

To  Shottery  I  seemed  to  stray, 

And  to  the  house  where  Shakespeare  went, 
In  idle  hours  of  youthful  May. 

To  wed  himself  to  discontent 
And  that  fair  shrew  Ann  Hathaway. 

I  saw  his  lampoon  on  the  gate 

Of  proud  Sir  Thomas  Lucy's  park, 


TO  RICHARD   GRANT   WHITE.  237 

And  knew  he  thus  would  irritate, 

More  than  deer-stealing  after  dark, 
This  pompous  village  potentate. 

Boy-husband,  scarcely  twenty-one, 

Yet  with  three  children  round  his  knees, 

It  was  full  time  the  poet  won 

From  Fortune's  wheel  the  bread  for  these  ; 

For  mouths  must  eat,  and  work  be  done. 

And  by  the  magic  of  your  book, 

Which  was  like  something  seen,  not  read, 

I  saw  our  Shakespeare  as  he  took 
The  road  for  London  from  the  stead, 

And  his  want-shadowed  cot  forsook. 

And  from  the  Aladdin's  lamp  he  bore, 

I  saw  his  wondrous  works  arise  — 
Vast  palaces  of  precious  store, 

Perfumed  with  flowers,  adorned  with  dyes 
Of  thoughts  that  are  for  evermore. 

At  Globe  or  Blackfriars,  in  his  play 
Of  "As  You  Like  It,"  him  the  part 

Of  faithful  Adam,  sere  and  gray, 
I  saw  impersonate,  with  art 

That  showed  a  nature  fresh  as  May. 

I  saw  him  when  he  meekly  wrote 

With  Greene  and  Marlowe  and  the  rest. 

Of  his  own  power  he  took  no  note  ; 
For  wounded  pride  within  his  breast 

He  sought  a  simple  antidote  — 

And  that  to  dwell  in  Stratford  town, 

And  live  at  ease,  a  gentleman, 
By  poverty  no  more  held  down, 


238  THE  PICTURE. 

No  more  beneath  that  dreadful  ban 
The  village  great-man's  stony  frown. 

And  so  through  life  the  poet  passed, 
To  win  a  goal  of  poor  pretense  ; 

Like  that  old  sculptor,  who  once  cast, 
For  low  and  paltry  recompense, 

A  statue  deemed  divine  at  last. 


THE  PICTURE. 

A  wmow  by  her  landlord  was  oppressed 

To  pay  at  once  her  backward  coin  of  rent ; 

For  he,  cursed  by  the  wealth  that  should  have  blessed. 

Forgot  that  he,  too,  in  a  tenement 

Dwelt,  with  unpaid  arrear ;  and  surely  he, 

More  than  the  widow,  lived  in  poverty. 

For  they  alone  are  rich  who  have  obtained 

The  love  of  God,  for  which  no  gold  can  pay. 

Blind  to  the  peaceful  joy  he  might  have  gained, 

The  craven  landlord,  on  a  winter's  day 

That  pierced  with  cold  and  wind-thrust  snow  and  sleet, 

Drove  forth  the  widow  to  the  roofless  street. 

Her  clinging  son,  with  elfin  prattle,  sought 

To  charm  away  her  grief ;  yet,  in  his  heart, 

By  the  indignant  pencil  of  his  thought, 

The  shameful  scene  was  drawn  in  every  part. 

There  lived  the  widow's  tears,  and  hard  and  base 

Stood  out  the  likeness  to  the  landlord's  face. 

Like  breaking  waves,  year  after  year  rolled  up, 
And  in  their  tide  the  widow's  son  became 
A  truthful  painter,  in  whose  life's  bright  cup 
A  thankful  world  dissolved  the  pearl  of  fame. 


FLOS  MORTI.  239 

Then,  with  his  brush,  which  spoke  in  every  hue, 
The  picture  in  his  heart  he  strongly  drew. 

Near  to  the  landlord's  home  the  painting  hung, 

As  at  his  threshold,  in  a  public  place ; 

To  view  it  came  the  townsfolk,  old  and  young, 

And  said,  "  This  is  our  neighbor's  ruthless  face, 

And  this  the  cruel  deed  that  he  has  done 

To  the  poor  widow  and  her  artist  son." 

The  landlord  brought  temptations  coined  and  vast, 
And  would  have  given  half  the  wealthy  town, 
To  lay  the  brush-raised  specter  of  his  past : 
No  gold  availed ;  the  specter  would  not  down  ; 
But  haunted  him  thereafter  till  he  died, 
In  looks  and  words  and  deeds,  on  every  side. 


FLOS   MORTI. 

IN"    MEMORIAM    H.    E.    O.,    JET,    XVH. 

MAIDEX,  whom  I  so  briefly  knew 
That  unto  me  thou  art  a  dream, 

A  lovely  vision  lost  to  view 

Across  the  dark,  relentless  stream, 

They  bring  thee  final  gifts,  and  one, 
A  broken  lyre  of  fragrance  deep, 

Is  symbol  of  thy  life,  undone 

By  that,  cold  hand  whose  clasp  gives  sleep. 

They  bring  thee  flowers,  who  wert  a  flower 

Above  the  lily  and  the  rose. 
The  fading  tribute  of  an  hour 

I  also  bring  to  thy  repose. 


240  FLOS  MORT1. 

This  flower  of  rhyme,  this  petaled  song, 
I  give  to  death,  I  bring  to  thee 

Whose  soul  was  raised  and  borne  along 
By  mystic  tides  of  poesy. 

Thou  wert  thyself  a  poem  true, 
A  lasting  joy  to  know  and  read ; 

The  manuscript  is  torn  in  two  ; 

The  rhythmic  strain  is  mute  indeed. 

So  oft,  through  flowery  paths  of  song, 
Sweet  angels  led  thy  thoughts  to  range 

The  immaterial  world  along, 
That  heaven  can  not  to  thee  be  strange. 

For  not  to  verse  wert  thou  impelled 
By  love  for  praise ;  but  by  the  stir 

Of  voices  that  within  thee  welled, 
And  by  thy  strength  of  character. 

O  loveliness  with  eyes  like  night ! 

We  should  not  call  thee  to  return 
From  out  the  darkness  that  is  light, 

To  where  our  lamps  of  being  burn. 

For  long   and  thankless  is  the  path 
Wherein  thy  tender  feet  were  set ; 

Thou  shalt  not  know  the  briers  it  hath 
On  heights  beclouded  with  regret. 

On  thee  Old  Age  shall  lay  no  hand, 
Friends  shall  not  turn  from  thee  away, 

Nor  shall  Temptation  near  thee  stand, 
Or  Disappointment  say  thee  nay. 

From  Life  thou  took'st  thy  rose  of  youth, 
Which  at  the  beaker's  brim  was  hung ; 


THE  JEW'S  PIETY.  241 

And  in  the  Heart  of  love  and  truth 
Thou  shalt  abide,  forever  young. 

Not  less  with  us  thou  still  shalt  dwell ; 

For  it  is  beautiful  to  be 
Enshrined  in  hearts  that  love  thee  well, 

A  blest  and  grateful  memory. 


THE  JEW'S  PIETY. 

ennobles  duty  simply  done. 
Nicanor,  an  Alexandrian  Jew, 
Had  traded  honestly  with  every  one 
Until  his  spreading  tree  of  fortune  grew 
Beyond  the  small,  dwarfed  stature  of  his  needs, 
And  each  bent  bough  bore  reproducing  seeds. 

And  then,  like  him  who,  walking  up  the  way, 
Turns  round  to  question  him  that  comes  behind, 
He,  turning,  faced  his  heart  and  asked  one  day, 
"  What  shall  I  make  my  duty  ?     Fixed,  my  mind 
Demands  its  aim  must  now  be  understood, 
For  every  man  should  live  for  some  set  good." 

Thereto  his  heart  made  answer,  "  Lips  are  fair ; 
Make  two  vast  doors  for  lips,  and  go  with  them, 
And  hinge  them  on  the  Temple's  mouth,  that  there 
They  long  may  name  thee  to  Jerusalem : 
With  lily-work  and  palm  thy  doors  be  made, 
And  both  with  beaten  copper  overlaid." 

In  time  the  lips  were  wrought,  and,  with  much  gain, 
He  stowed  them  on  a  bark,  and  sailed  away, 
And  saw  the  land  fade  forth  from  off  the  main. 
Beneath  the  sun,  the  rippled  waters  lay 
16 


242  THE  JEWS  PIETY. 

Like  the  great  roof  that  Solomon  of  old 
Built  on  the  Temple,  spiked  with  goodly  gold. 

When  certain  days  flew  west  a  storm  came  up, 
And  night  was  like  a  black  and  fearful  cave 
Where  Powers  of  Awe  held  banquet  ;  as  cloud-cup 
Struck  waved  cloud-cup,  the  clash  deep  thunder  gave, 
And  spilled  the  wine  of  rain :  the  thrilling  gloom 
Was  filled  with  loud  but  unseen  wings  of  doom. 

Then  said  the  master  of  the  worried  keel, 
"  Vile  Jew,  thy  doors  are  heavy :  they  must  go !  " 
Nicanor  cried,  "  Here,  at  thy  feet,  I  kneel, 
And  crave  of  thee  to  spare  them :  I  will  throw 
My  goods  away  and  gold,  my  proof  of  thrift ; 
But  spare  the  doors  —  to  God  my  humble  gift. 

"  Despise  me  not ;  for  he  that  scorns  a  Jew 
Without  just  cause,  himself  shall  be  despised." 
Thereat  his  gains  he  gathered  up  and  threw 
Into  the  sea,  till  all  were  sacrificed 
Except  his  gift;  but  still  the  Pan-like  blast 
Piped  on  the  reed  of  each  divested  mast. 

Up  spoke  the  sailors  to  their  master  dark  : 
'•  We  late  made  mention  to  our  gods  of  this, 
And  they  require  we  shall  unload  the  bark 
Of  the  vile  Jew  and  all  that  may  be  his." 
As  the  dread  judgment  meek  Nicanor  heard, 
He  radiantly  smiled,  but  said  no  word. 

Into  the  deep  the  lofty  doors  were  thrown. 
Nicanor  prayed,  "  I  put  my  trust  in  Thee !  " 
And  sprang  out  to  the  storm,  and  scaled  alone, 
'Gainst  Death,  the  rolling  rampart  of  the  sea. 
He  sank  and  rose  ;  but,  going  down  once  more, 
His  guided  hand  seized  on  a  drifting  door. 


WINTER  DAYS.  243 

Dripping  and  weak,  he  crawled  upon  his  float, 
And  heard  the  cry  go  by,  "  The  ship  is  lost !  " 
Then  shrieks,  death-ended.     Swords  of  storm  that  smote 
Were  now  soon  sheathed,  while  flags  of  foam  that  tossed 
Were  furled  in  peace,  and  good  Nicanor  found 
The  lip  there  kissed  the  sweet  and  certain  ground. 

A  cape  ran  out,  a  long,  rock-sinewed  arm 

That  buffeted  the  sea,  and  this  had  caught 

The  Jew  and  both  his  doors  ;  and  free  of  harm 

He  stood  in  dawn's  gray  surf  :  stout  help  he  brought, 

And  going  safely  inland  far  and  fast, 

The  gifts  were  on  the  Temple  hinged  at  last. 

Long  centuries  succeed,  and  Herod,  king, 

Rose  to  rebuild  the  Temple :  for  rough  stone, 

He  reared  stone  snow,  white  marble  ;  each  pure  thing 

He  beautified.     Nicanor's  doors  alone 

Were  left.     "These,"  said  the  wise  high-priests,  "shall 

be 
For  a  memorial  of  piety." 


WINTER  DAYS. 

Now  comes  the  graybeard  of  the  north  : 
The  forests  bare  their  rugged  breasts 

To  every  wind  that  wanders  forth, 
And,  in  their  arms,  the  lonely  nests, 

That  housed  the  birdlings  months  ago, 

Are  egged  with  flakes  of  drifted  snow. 

No  more  the  robin  pipes  his  lay 

To  greet  the  flushed  advance  of  morn ; 

He  sings  in  valleys  far  away  ; 

His  heart  is  with  the  south  to-day  ; 
He  can  not  shrill  among  the  corn. 


244  IN  HANGING  GARDENS. 

For  all  the  hay  and  corn  are  down 
And  garnered  ;   and  the  withered  leaf, 

Against  the  branches  bare  and  brown, 
Rattles  ;  and  all  the  days  are  brief. 

An  icy  hand  is  on  the  land ; 

The  cloudy  sky  is  sad  and  gray ; 
But  through  the  misty  sorrow  streams, 

Outspreading  wide,  a  golden  ray. 
And  on  the  brook  that  cuts  the  plain 

A  diamond  wonder  is  aglow, 

Fairer  than  that  which,  long  ago, 
De  Rohan  staked  a  name  to  gain. 


IN   HANGING   GARDENS. 

IN  an  old  city,   so  the  Rabbins  say, 

Lived  a  fair  lady  having  youth  and  wealth, 

Who  in  the  hanging  gardens,  day  by  day, 

Moved  through  the  noiseless  paths  as  still  as  stealth- 

The  lofty  paths  that  climbed,  the  sun  to  kiss, 

Above  the  pinnacled  metropolis. 

Here  stair  on   stair  with  heavy  balustrade, 
And  columned   hybrids  cut  in  rigid  stone, 
And  vase,  and  sphinx,  and  obelisk,  arrayed, 
And  arched,  wide  bridges  over  wheelways  thrown. 
Valleys  of  heaven  the  gardens  seemed  to  be, 
Or  isles  of  cloud-land  in  a  sunset  sea. 

The  lady,  daughter  of  some  prince  or  king, 
Was  sued  in  love  by  one  of  lowly  birth. 
He  gave  her  gems  inclosed  in  toy  or  ring, 
Trifles  of  cost,  of  value  for  their  dearth ; 
But  she  was  used  to  greater  gifts  than  these, 
And  their  small  beauty  failed  her  heart  to  please. 


VERSJSS  IN  MEMORY  OF  GENERAL   GRANT.      245 

She  turned  away  :    she  did  not  love  him  less 
For  that  he  gave  her  what  to  him  was  rare ; 
She  only  felt  its  total  nothingness 
Beside  the  jewels  she  was  wont  to  wear. 
She  turned,  and  in  the  hanging  gardens  strayed 
By  drippling  fountains  in  the  palmy  shade. 

The  Soul  is  child  of  God,  and  when  the  World, 
Her  lover,  brings  his  presents,  wealth  and  fame  — 
Wealth,  a  bird  jeweled ;  fame,  a  ring  impearled  — 
She  is  not  satisfied :  she  bears  no  blame  ; 
But  turns  from  them  to  gardens   hung  in  bliss, 
The  untempled  calm  of  heaven's  metropolis. 


VERSES  IN  MEMORY  OF  GENERAL  GRANT. 

WHITE  wings  of  commerce  sailing  far, 

Hot  steam  that  drives  the  weltering  wheel, 
Tamed  lightning  speeding  on  the  wire, 

Black  postmen  on  their  way  of  steel  — 
These  circling  all  the  world,  have  told 

The  loss  that  makes  us  desolate  ; 
For  we  give  back  to  dust  this  day 

The  God-sent  man  who  saved  the  state. 

When  black  the  sky  and  dire  with  war, 

When  every  heart  was  wrung  with  fear, 
He  rose  serene,  and  took  his  place, 

The  great  occasion's  mighty  peer. 
He  smote  armed  opposition  down, 

And  bade  the  storm  and  darkness  cease, 
Till  o'er  the  long-distracted  land 

Shone  out  the  smiling  sun  of  peace. 

The  famous  captains  of  the  past 
March  in  review  before  the  mind ; 


246      VERSES  JN  MEMORY  OF  GENERAL   GRANT. 

Some  fought  for  country,  some  for  fame, 
But  most  to  yoke  and  rule  mankind. 

Not  so  the  captain  dead  to-day 

For  whom  our  half-mast  banners  wave ; 

He  fought  to  keep  the  Union  whole, 
And  break  the  shackles  of  the  slave. 

A  silent  man,  in  friendship  true, 

He  made  point-blank  his  certain  aim, 
And,  born  a  stranger  to  defeat, 

To  steadfast  purpose  linked  his  name. 
Yet  while  the   angry  flood  of  war 

Surged  down  between  its  gloomy  banks, 
He  followed  duty,  with  the  mien 

Of  but  a  soldier  in  the  ranks. 

How  well  he  wore  white  honor's  flower, 

The  gratitude  and  praise  of  men, 
As  General,  as  President, 

And  then  as  simple  citizen ! 
He  was  a  hero  to  the  end ; 

The  dark  rebellion  raised  by  Death 
Against  the  Powers  of  Life  and  Light, 

He  battled  hard,  with  failing  breath. 

O  hero  of  Fort  Donelson, 

And  wooded  Shiloh's  frightful  strife ! 
Sleep  on !  for  honor  loves  the  tomb 

More  than  the  gairish  ways  of  life. 
Sleep  on !  sleep  on  !     Thy  wondrous  life 

Is  freedom's  most  illustrious  page  ; 
And  fame  shall  loudly  sound  thy  praise, 

In  every  clime,  to  every  age. 


PHILIPPA.  247 


PHILIPPA. 

IN  praise  of  Queen  Philippa  —  in  her  praise 

Who,   while  the  king,  her  husband,  fought  with  France, 

Beat  back  at  Neville's  Cross  the  sturdy  Scots, 

And  from  the  grape  of  their  invasion  pressed 

The  wine  of  victory. 

A  manly  deed 

Befits  a  woman,  as,  in  truth,  no  less, 
An  act  of  gentleness  befits  a  man. 

But  when  the  Scots  were  scattered  on  the  hills, 
And  nursed  defeat,  Philippa  crossed  the  sea 
Between  the  island  and  the  continent, 
And,  in  the  camp  besieging  Calais'  gates, 
Was  welcomed  by  the  army  and  the  king. 

Upon  the  wall  of  Calais,  which,  howe'er 

Impregnable  to  savage  force  of  arms, 

Was  stormed  and  scaled  by  Famine  gaunt  and  thin, 

Stood  up  the  governor  in  sight  of  all, 

And  waved  for  parley  to  his  English  foe. 

The  king  sent  forth  to  him  an  officer, 

Who,  when  arrived,  look'd  up,  and  asked  his  wish. 

"  Brave  knight,"  exclaimed  the  governor,  "  my  king 

Intrusted    unto  my  command  this  place. 

Nearly  a  year  you  have  besieged  us  round, 

And  I,  with  these  about  me,  as  we  could, 

Have  done  our  duty  in  the  town's  defense. 

But  now  we  are  reduced  by  that  lean  foe 

Invisible,  more  pitiless  than  war, 

And  deadlier  than  its  missiles  ;  for,   alas ! 

We  yield  to  famine,  and  to  thee  who  art 

Its  officer  and  representative. 


248  PHILIPPA. 

But,  ere  the  gates  be  opened,   I  require 
This  one  condition,  that  thou  wilt  insure 
The  lives  and  liberties  of  these   brave  men 
Who  have  with  me  borne  peril  and  fatigue." 

The  knight  made  answer  to  the  governor : 

"I  know  the  will  of  Edward,  England's  King. 

Enraged  at  Calais,  that  so  stubbornly 

It  has  resisted  him,  he  has  resolved 

To  put  it  wholly  to  the  sword,  and  make 

A  red  example  for  succeeding  wars ; 

That  henceforth  when  he  stands  before  a  town 

And  calls  for  its  surrender,  those  within 

Will  blanch  and  tremble  with  the  ague,  fear, 

If  in  defense  one  dare  to  raise  a  hand ; 

For  all  will  think  of  Calais,  and  so  yield." 

"  Consider,"  said  the  governor.     "  Is  this 

Such  treatment  as  the  brave  accord  the  brave  ? 

The  blinded  victor  shows  the  basest  fear, 

Belittles  his  own  deed,  and  conquers  not, 

Who  grants  no  mercy  to  a  fallen  foe. 

Were  I  an  English  knight,  and  this  a  town 

In  sea-girt  England,  what  would'st  thou  expect 

Save  that  I  should  be  valiant  to  resist? 

The  men  of  Calais  did  that  for  their  king 

Which  merits  the  esteem  of  every  prince, 

Much  more  of  one  so  gallant  as  thine  own. 

But  now  I  make  to  thee  no  idle  boast ; 

If  we  must  perish,  thou  shalt  buy  our  lives 

With  heart's-blood  of  thy  ranks  ;  for,  tho'  not  strong, 

We  are  not  yet  so  weak  that  we  will  die 

And  leave  unstruck  a  blow  for  hope  forlorn. 

But  these  are  desperate  and  wild  extremes 

To  which  thou  should'st  not  drive  us ;  but  we  trust 

That  thou,  brave  knight,  wilt  kindly  interpose 

In  our  behalf  thy  gentle  offices, 

And  thwart  the  vain  continuance  of  war." 


PHILIPPA.  249 

The  knight  went  back,  and  on  his  loyal  knees 

Raised  meek  petition  to  the  warlike  king 

To  make  his  rigor  less,  and  so    revoke 

The  doom  that  threatened  Calais.     To  the  prayer 

The  angry  monarch  yielded,  but  required 

That  six  of  Calais'  noblest  citizens 

Should  be  sent  forth  to  him,  without  delay, 

That  he  might  treat  them  after  as  he  willed ; 

They  must  come  barefoot,  and    bareheaded  too, 

With  ropes  about  their  necks,  to  hang  them    with  — 

Must  bring  the  keys  of  Calais  in  their  hands, 

And  lay  them  at  his  feet :  if  this  were  done, 

The  people  in  the  city  should  be  spared. 

When  these  ill  news  were  bruited  through  the  town, 

Fresh  consternation  wanned  the  hollow  cheeks. 

Who  were  the  six  to  be  ?     To  send  them  out 

To  fall  on  certain  and  ignoble  death 

For  signal  valor  in  a  common  cause 

Seemed  as  severe  as  that  they  all  should  die. 

As  when  a  vessel  beating  'gainst  the  wind 
Changes  her  course,  and  for  a  time  drifts  back 
As  if  irresolute  which  way  to  turn, 
Her  white  sails  flapping,  trembling  in  the  gust, 
So  were  the  men  of  Calais,  in  that  hour, 
White,  shaking,  fearful,  and  devoid  of  will. 

But  soon  brave  Eustace  de  St.  Pierre  stepped  forth 

To  show  his  willingness  to  suffer  death 

For  safety  of  the  populace  ;  and  then 

Another,  by  his  lofty  action    roused, 

Made  a  like  offer,  till  the  needed  six 

Stood  up  before  the  people,  whose  wet  eyes 

And  trembling  lips  made  manifest  the  grief 

Felt  for  the  martyrs  to  the  city's  cause. 


250  THE  FISHER-MAIDENS. 

At  the  high  gate  the  doomed  went  calmly  out, 

As  malefactors  clad,  bearing  the  keys, 

And  laid  them  proudly  at  the  conqueror's  feet 

He,  hard  and  cold,  and  heedless  that  his  steps 

Went  down  to  infamy  in  such  a  deed, 

Ordered  that  these  heroic  burgesses 

Should  be  removed  and  quickly  put  to  death. 

Then  she  who  won  the  day  at  Neville's  Cross, 
Philippa,  saved  her  husband's  mighty  name 
A  blotch  beyond  time's  healing ;  for,  with  tears, 
She  threw  herself  before  him  on  her  knees  — 
Nay,  England  in  the  person  of  the  queen  — 
And  begged  the  lives  of  these  brave  citizens. 

Obtaining  her  request,  she  led  the  six 
Into  a  tent  where  rich  repast  was  served, 
And  giving  each  silk  clothing  and  red  gold, 
Dismissed  them  all  in  safety  to  their  homes. 


THE   FISHER-MAIDENS. 

NORMANDY. 

WE  two  are    fisher-maidens,  and  we  dwell   beside    the 

sea 
Where  the  surf   is    ever    rolling,  where    the  winds    are 

blowing  free ; 
And  we  loved  a  youth,  the  bravest  that  had  ever  drawn 

the  seine, 
And    for    comeliness    and    honor    he   was    fit    to  wed  a 

queen. 

We  loved  him,  and  we  hated  one   another  for  his  love 
That  he  never  showed  for  either.    Could  he  toss  it  like 
a  glove  ? 


BY  HUDSON'S  TIDE.  251 

But   one   day  the    sails  were    hoisted,  and    he    left   the 

loving  shore, 
And  we   saw  him  in  the   beauty  and  the  pride  of  life 

no  more. 

For  the  tempest  broke  upon  him  as  at  night  he  ven 
tured  back : 

All  the  sea  was  frothy  madness,  all  the  sky  was  wild 
and  black ; 

But  we  combed  the  drifted  sea-weed  from  the  sable 
of  his  hair, 

And  the  day  that  he  was  buried  seemed  too  much  for 
us  to  bear. 

We    two    are    fisher-maidens,  and  we    hold    each  other 

dear  ; 
We  are  wedded  by  a  sorrow,  we  are  very  fond  and 

near; 
For  the  love  we  lost  unites  us  —  is  a  bond  between  us 

twain, 
And  in  tears  we  clasp  each  other  in  the  nights  of  wind 

and  rain. 


BY   HUDSON'S   TIDE. 

WHAT  pleasant  dreams,  what  memories,  rise, 

When  filled  with  care,  or  pricked  in  pride, 
I  wander  down  in  solitude 

And  reach  the  beach  by  Hudson's  tide  ! 
The  thick-boughed  hemlocks  mock  my  sigh; 

The  azure  heaven  is  filled  with  smiles ; 
The  water,  lisping  at  my  feet, 

From  weary  thought  my  heart  beguiles, 
By  Hudson's  tide. 


252  BY  HUDSON'S    TIDE. 

I  see  the  gulls  on  easy   wing 

Pursue  their  finny   quest,  and  bear 
The  gasping  silver  of  their  prey 

Far  up  th'  untrodden  heights  of  air. 
In  quiet  depths  I  watch  the  course 

Of  dreamy  clouds  against  the  sky, 
And  see  a  flock  of  wild-ducks  float, 

Like  water-lilies  nearer  by, 

On  Hudson's  tide. 

The  mullein  lifts,  along  the  bank, 

Its  velvet  spires  of  yellow  bloom ; 
And  there  a  darting  humming-bird 

Gleams  in  the  cedars'  .verdant  gloom. 
By  basins  of  the  brook  that  flings 

Its  dewy  diamonds  far  below 
Into  the  ripples'  pigmy  hands, 

Sweet  maiden-hair  and  cresses  grow, 
By  Hudson's  tide. 

I  wander  on  the  pebbled  beach, 

And   think  of  boyhood's  careless  hours 
When,  in  my  boat,  I  used  to  float 

Along  the  bank  and  gather  flowers  ; 
Or  catch  the  wind,  and  swiftly  dash 

Across  the  white-caps  in  their  play, 
And  feel  their  wet  resistance  break 

Against  the  prow  in  pearly  spray, 
On  Hudson's  tide. 

And  once,  in  those  lost  days,  I  lay 
Becalmed  with  limp  and   drowsy  sail, 

And  drifted  where  Esopus  Isle 

Mid-stream  reclines  in  rocky  mail ; 

And  up  he  rose,  and   stood  erect 

In  leaf-trimmed  armor  wrought  of  stone, 


BY  HUDSON'S    TIDE.  253 

And  cast  his  eyes,  as  from  the  skies, 
On  me  that  drifted  there  alone 
On  Hudson's  tide. 

Only  his  feet  were  lost  to  view, 

And  cleft  the  current  ebbing  down  ; 
His  ridgy  helmet,  plumed  with  trees, 

Propped  the  blue  zenith  with  its  crown. 
The  river's  self  was  but  his   lance 

That  lay  neglected  on  the  ground  ; 
Upon  his  greaves  were  grass  and  leaves ; 

His  breastplate  sparkled  far  around, 
Like  Hudson's  tide. 

I  had  not  been  surprised  if  he 

Had  mounted  on  some  thunder-cloud 
And  charged  at  Ontiora's  knee, 

With  sudden  war-cry  sharp  and  loud. 
But  he  was  mild,  and  blandly  smiled, 

And  spoke  with  accents  sweet  and  low. 
His  words  with  kindness  glanced  and  fell, 

And  seemed  like  music,  or  the  flow 
Of  Hudson's  tide. 

"  Enjoy  the  river  and  thy  days," 

He  said,  "  nor  heed  what  others  say. 
What  matters  either  blame  or  praise, 

If  one  in  peace  pursue  his  way  ? 
The  river  heeds  not ;  heed  not  thou : 

Cut  deep  the  channel  of  thy  life. 
Thou  hast  a  fair  exemplar  there  : 

With  what  serene  indifference  rife 
Is  Hudson's  tide  ! 

"  How  level  lies  its  changeful  floor, 

Broad-sweeping  to  the  distant  sea ! 
What  Titan  grandeur  marks  the  shore ! 

What  beauty  covers  rock  and  tree ! 


254  INVOCATION  TO  THE  SUN. 

What  ample  bays  and  branching  streams, 
What  curves  abrupt  for  glad  surprise ! 

And  how  supreme  the  Artist  is 
Who  paints  it  all  for  loving  eyes 
By  Hudson's  tide  !  " 

I  woke  ;  and  since,  long  years  have  passed 

By  Hudson's  tide  my  days  go  by : 
Its  varied  beauty  fills  my  heart. 

Of  other  scenes  what  need  have  I? 
And  when  my  little  boat  of  life 

Shall  quit  the  harbor  of  my  breast, 
And  seek  the  silent,  unknown  sea, 

I  trust  this  dust  in  peace  shall  rest 
By  Hudson's  tide. 


INVOCATION   TO  THE  SUN. 

0  SUN,  toward  which  the  earth's  uneven  face 
Turns  ever  round,  strong  Emperor  of  Day, 
To  thee  I  bring  my  tribute  of  large  praise ; 
And  yet  not  I ;  but  that  which  in  me  is, 
The  fife  in  life,  conscience,  suggester,  muse. 

Not  as  to  Quetzalcoatl  came  of  old 
Fane-climbing  worshipers  with  trump  and  drum, 
And  human  victims  bared  for  sacrifice 
On  dizzy  Aztec  altars ;  nor,  indeed, 
As  to  Apollo  of  the  golden  hair 
And  fiery  chariot,  who  darted  war 
Against  the  lords  and  following  of  Night, 
Come  I,  O  Sun,  to  thee. 

Nor  like  the  Gheber  throngs 
Who  on  the  eastern  shore  of  ocean  bow, 


INVOCATION   TO   THE  SUN.  255 

Kissing  the  trail  of  thy  departing  robes, 
Do  I,  to  thy  down-going,  offer  prayer. 

I,  worshiper  no  less,  but  not  of  thee, 
Rising  at  cool-breathed,  night-releasing  dawn, 
Thank  the  unseen  All-Giver  for  thy  day, 
And  see  in  thee  a  ray-strung  instrument 
Swept  by  His  hand  for  harmonies  of  life. 

Not  I  alone  salute  thy  springing  beam ; 
The  mountains  do  thee  homage  first  of  all, 
And  .hinder,  with  their  bold  and  rocky  brows, 
Thy  swift,  protracted  ray. 

Thou  callest  up 

The  blooming  new  from  out  the  withered  old, 
And  givest  consciousness  to  soulless  things. 
Thou  sendest  forth  the  lightning-arrowed  cloud ; 
And  the  coy  breeze,  a  wordless  whisperer, 
Doth  interchange  the  breath  of  man  and  tree. 
Thou  dost  invite  the  robin  from  the  south ; 
Thou  whitenest  the  harvest  for  our  need  ; 
Thou  fillest  out  the  youthful  cheeks  of  fruit 
With  sappy  wholesomeness,  and  dost,  at  last, 
Print  one  broad  sunset  on  autumnal  woods  — 
In  rubricated  letters  publishing 
A  sad  and  sylvan  moral  of  decay. 

To  tread  where  populations  that  are  dust 

Eked  out  their  changeful  lives,  and  left  behind 

Little  beyond  a  ruin  and  a  name, 

Men  trust  the  brief  forbearance  of  the  sea ; 

But  thou,  above,  silent,  immutable, 

Art  long  familiar  with  the  scenes  they  seek, 

And  hast  beheld  all  times  and  nations  fade. 

Tho'  like  the  leaves  the  generations  dip, 
And  tho'  the  ages  in  the  past  recede, 


256  INVOCATION  TO  THE  SUN. 

Spun  by  this  pendulous  swift  wheel  of   earth 
In  its  fixed  orbit  by  thy  influence, 
Thou  makest  man  endure  ;  he  ceases  not ; 
But  stands  with  steadfast  feet  upon  all  time  ; 
Nor  shall  he  cease  while  yet  to-morrow  holds 
Its  one  remove  away. 

Our  yesterdays 

Are  like  a -lonely  and  a  ruined  land 
Wherein  a  breeze  of  recollection  sighs  — 
A  fading  land  to  which  is  no  return. 
Uncertainly  we  bode  the  life  to  come, 
Yet  deem  we  stand  upon  the  topmost  height 
Material ;  but  this,  our  consciousness 
That  separates  the  evil  from  the  good, 
Baffles  itself,   and  knows  not  what  it  is, 
Save  that  its  being  is  enlinked  with  thine. 

And  thou,  O  Sun,   dost  look  on  many  worlds  — 
On  eight-mooned  Saturn  with  his  shining  rings, 
On  Jupiter,  on  Venus,  pearl  of  dusk  — 
Thou  dost  behold  thy  worlds,  and  lay  on  them 
Thy  ray's  restoring  finger:    they  receive 
Their  sight,  and  go  rejoicing  on  their  way, 
Changing,  we  think,  thy  light  and  heat  to  life. 
But  we,  bound  down,  shut  in  on  one  small  star, 
Shall  not  know  fully  of  those  other  spheres 
Until  the  soul,  up-drawn  by  rays  Divine, 
Out  of  this  seed-like  body  blooms  on  high. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-32m-8,'58(5876s4)444 


Jj3 Abbey  - 

1000  Poems 

A62U17 

1885 


PS 

1000 
A62H17 
1885 


A    001  372164    2 


